


Obedience And Instruction

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Obedience and Instruction [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, BDSM, Banter, Bruises, Complicated Relationships, Control, Dirty Talk, Disobeying Orders, Dom/sub, Food, Hair-pulling, M/M, Magic, Marking, Masochism, Not Epilogue Compliant, Obedience, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sadism, Sex Magic, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3598023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is approached by Lucius Malfoy just as he settles into his new and more relaxing work at the ministry; it leads to somewhat promising results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

All Harry wanted, if he were to tell the honest truth, was a little bit of peace.

And he has worked _hard_ for his peace; he'd done his Auror training when he'd been pushed and badgered and wheedled into it, and when he'd despised the actual work, he had reimbursed the force generously. He'd _wanted_ to be an Auror before the last battle, after all, and had never considered _not_ fighting, but now- well. He'd taken his job at the Ministry, insisted sixteen times he just wants something _quiet_ and _orderly_ with paperwork and no more fighting.

Harry is just so tired of fighting.

Even now, of course, with his work filing all of the Ministry's legal contracts, his office is _obscenely_ large.

Harry sits for a moment, settles back in his seat and stares at the high ceiling, at the wide walls, at the desk that is ornately carved of dense mahogany and is quite a lot bigger than Harry needs himself; it had allowed him to have his work, however, and so he'd taken the office. It's only so that they have some pleasant backdrop for the _Prophet_ to take _photos_ of him with, anyway.

He moves to stand, his cup of tea abandoned on the desk in front of him, and he takes the neat stack of files on his desk before disappearing into the next room and moving to stand on an enchanted ladder. As he flies down the seemingly unending length of shelf, the wood whistling loudly and merrily on its track, he considers how this filing system had been _before_ he'd taken the job.

Desperate to keep the infamous Harry Potter on the staff roster but unwilling to allow him to do anything they could not brag about to the press, the Ministry had created a placement for him: Director of Ministry Legal Application and Organization. Suitably impressive sounding, so the term had been, but it had never meant to include any work for him – once upon a time, all of the Ministry's legal files had been organized automatically via a complex array of charms and enchantments.

It was without a doubt the most catastrophic failure of bureaucratic magic Harry had ever had the misfortune of working with, and that was after three years actively spending time in the magical government.

When he'd set foot in this filing room – a vast effective _library_ of almost-infinite shelves each nine feet high and spanning into little corridors of their own accord – it had been in disarray, with files messily shoved onto shelves, pieces out of order, entire sections of shelving that were half tilted from the weight of too many files.

The enchantments had, after all, originally been made a long while ago, and they did not work suitably – Harry, initially, had not worked suitably either, given that he'd never actually had a job filing before.

Now, four months in, and the work is time-consuming, difficult, but ultimately satisfying, and it offers Harry _peace._ It doesn't matter how much people complain – and almost everyone seems to complain, from Ron and Hermione to Minerva McGonagall, even Arthur _Weasley_ – about the fact that he's doing paperwork when he's capable of whatever great magic someone wants him to occupy his time with.

All that he wants for now is _peace_ : he's had enough of audacity.

His peace and comfort are quite starkly interrupted by the presence of Lucius Malfoy II across from his desk in his office.

Harry stares at him.

“What _charming_ robes, Mr Potter,” Malfoy says, and each sound is carefully enunciated and perfectly clipped, because if you're going to come and intimidate someone you need to ensure you sound suitably _posh_. “I had worried that due to the lack of uniform imposed upon you, you might allow your standards to slacken, or worse, come to your work in _Muggle_ attire, but I see my assumptions were quite unfounded.”

Harry adjusts his robes subconsciously in response to that particular comment: they are traditional working robes, and they are a deep green. Madame Malkin had asked at the time if he would like silver embossed upon the “M” at its breast, and in the lining of the robe's collar and hem.

“I just need to look professional,” Harry replies, and he perhaps mutters the words a little as he walks forwards, suddenly sullen. He will not be hostile towards the man – Malfoy had been pardoned just as Narcissa and Draco had, after the War, and he'd quickly returned to his politics in the middle. Still firm, still unwavering, but somewhat less _right-wing_ than before, at least in regards to his policy and monetary support. “Uh, is there something I can help you with, Mr Malfoy? I have work to do.”

“I was under the _impression_ that your position was more created for you. Surely there _is_ no work to speak of,” Malfoy's speech comes smoothly, and his words do not cut through the deafening silence between them so much as they _glide_ , effortlessly low and resonant. For a moment, Harry lets his gaze drop to Malfoy's own robes, made of some sort of sleek, black fabric that _shines_ – a chain of silver is evident at its lining, some sort of pocket watch, and the buttons look like they are made with emeralds or some other green gem – but once he's looked his fill he meets Malfoy's gaze as resolutely as he can.

“I think the Ministry was under that impression as well,” Harry says, doing his best not to swallow, not to look away, not to outwardly show any of his _intimidation_. Lucius Malfoy always was something of a coward, so Harry has no reason to be afraid of him, no reason at all, and yet he feels on edge, feels like his skin is _tingling_ with apprehension, feels like his knees are going to go weak any second. “Which is worrying, you know. Given that you'd expect a government to check on its own files now and then.”

Malfoy is looking at him, looking at him with that thin, smug smirk, those piercing grey eyes, and Harry _does_ swallow now, his Adam's apple bobbing obviously in his throat. The sides of Malfoy's lips quirk upwards. “Then we are lucky to be saved by the infamous Harry _Potter_ ,” Malfoy purrs, and he throws out the “p” just like Draco had when they'd been at school. It reminds Harry of- were they worse days or better days? Perspective has never been his area of expertise. “once again.”

“Very lucky, yeah,” Harry agrees, and Lucius Malfoy's chuckle somehow makes him _shiver_ – Harry sees no scars on his aristocratic features, but he knows that dozens undoubtedly lie under those expensive looking robes, and he knows that Malfoy would rather add a thousand more than allow Harry to revel in _one._ “but like I _said_ , Mr Malfoy: Is there something you want?”

“Now, you may call me _Lucius_ , should you like, Mr Potter,” Harry regards him resolutely, expression unchanging. “I merely wished to inquire as to your health.”

“I'm fine.” Harry says stiffly, and Lucius stands, adjusting the cane in his hands. Oh, Harry had _forgotten_ about that cane – it seems to linger in the other wizard's hand even more than his wand does, undoubtedly because of his traditional affection for having his wand held within the wood casing. The idea of calling the other man by his forename is bizarre, bizarre and utterly unexpected, but Harry wants to keep his job, wants to keep his _peace_ , and so he goes with it. “Lucius. You can, um, you know. Call me Harry.”

“ _Harry_.” Lucius says with an evident delight, and Harry can't help but _stare_ at the way his lips pull back, revealing the pink of his tongue within, and the stark whiteness of the other man's teeth.

He thinks of the cane, thinks of that steadfast, inexorable length of black wood, and he's suddenly struck with the idea of it whipping against the back of his thighs with a sharp hiss of movement through the air. He swallows again, drops back against the edge of his desk: if he didn't know himself to be capable of recognizing legilimency by now, he'd accuse the other of inciting the thought in him by magic.

But no, that's only wishful thinking – even when he was fifteen, he'd thought of kissing Malfoy Junior. He'd thought about it, thought about it a _lot_ , of pressing him against the wall or being similarly thrown back, of kissing the other boy as furiously as they'd argued. He'd never _acted_ on it, obviously – ninety percent of the thoughts he'd ever had he'd never acted on. It was just a teenager's mixed up sexual feelings, certainly: he'd had thoughts about Draco just as he'd thought about Hermione, Ginny, Luna, the Patil twins-

Of course, Draco was a bloke, but then, so was Charlie Weasley, and Harry had still found himself somewhat _drawn_ to the dragon tamer on their most recent meeting, positively enchanted by the thickness of his arms and the scars shining all over the skin of them. Not something he'd admit to, of course – he doubts it would go down well with Ron, or the rest of the family. He's already dated and parted ways with a Weasley daughter, and it'd hardly be acceptable for him to start pursuing one of the sons.

He's not gay, though. He's definitely not gay, he's not _anything_ -

“Harry?” Lucius Malfoy is staring at him, one of his silver eyebrows elegantly arched, and he seems expectant, with an underlying concern.

“Uh,” Harry touches his own temple, adjusting his position. “Um, sorry, I think I- did you say something? Just now?” He feels blood rush to his cheeks, and the flesh there _burns_ with it; he knows full well the blush is probably suddenly visible on his face, and he feels like being _sick._ He always ends up feeling sick if he ends up thinking about _men_ , and it's upsetting enough that the man he's looking at is Lucius _bloody_ Malfoy.

“I merely said you ought seek me out if you require _assistance_ , Harry,” Malfoy's words come as smoothly as ever, and the sibilance is soft and almost _hissed_ as he steps closer, and he is _taller_ than Harry is – years of malnutrition at the Dursleys' hadn't exactly put Harry off to the best start, and even with the growth spurts he'd never met _some_ people. “Are you quite sure you _are_ alright?” Malfoy's face is barely a few inches from Harry's own, and he stares up at the other man, trying to ignore the nausea twisting at his stomach and the way his heart is _pounding_ in his chest. The head of the other's cane touches against the side of his jaw, the carved, clean silver cool against the skin, and he lets out a shuddered exhalation despite himself, _staring_ at the other man.

“Yeah. Yes. Uh. Lucius.” Harry all but chokes on every word. “I'm alright. Just need to work.” Malfoy's head tilts, almost reptilian, and Harry has a sudden, intrusive thought of Lucius with his teeth against Harry's neck: the idea is positively bewitching, and it's at odds with memories of _Malfoy_ throwing curses at him in the Department of Mysteries.

“Well then.” Lucius murmurs, and he takes a neat, deliberate step back. Everything about the man is _neat_ , orderly and quite careful: that deliberation attracts Harry even though he should want to kill the ma-

No. No, not kill him. Harry has never wanted to kill _anyone_ , never wanted to kill anyone at all. But at the least, he should feel disgusted, feel angry, and what he certainly should not feel is _attracted_. The man was a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake.

“I shall see you, Harry,” Lucius murmurs, and some sort of secret emphasis is put upon the younger wizard's name, some sort of implicit meaning that Harry cannot decipher, but that still affects his heart to leap and his cock to give an interested _twitch_ beneath the layered fabric of his robes. Harry watches after him as Lucius leaves, stares after him as the door closes shut behind him, and he heaves in a breath once he's gone, a breath of desperate relief.

It serves only to fill his nostrils with the scent of Malfoy's cologne, subtle but sweet, and enticing.

“Oh, _God._ ” Harry mutters to himself, and he puts his head in his hands, rubbing at his own eyes.

Maybe he needs to go out somewhere. Ginny always tells him he should get laid more regularly, and he doesn't, and it's just- _build-up_ , making him think of having sex with Lucius Malfoy of all people.

That's it. Just build-up.

\---

“I cannot _believe_ you just sit behind a desk all day and you're honestly satisfied with it.” George says as he passes the gravy to Ginny, and Harry laughs along with the others – it's a family sort of dinner. It's Mrs Weasley (she insists he call her Molly these days, but he's not quite sure he can manage that), Mr Weasley (again, forenames seem too close – and yet he uses a first name for Malfoy. Maybe he should reconsider), George, Harry, Ron, Ginny and Percy, of course. Hermione comes, sometimes, but not always, and tonight is a night without her.

“I don't sit behind a desk all day. I do a lot of filing. You should see the ride on our enchanted ladders, George – it's better than a broomstick.” Ginny and George let out twin cries of horror and crow in response. Percy, beside his father, puts his head in his hands and lets out a rueful chuckle – he's glad to be back with his family, Harry thinks, but the banter is often enough too much for him.

“Better than a broomstick!”

“Better than a _broomstick_ , he says!”

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

“The Ministry has made a monster of you, Harry Potter.”

“First Percy, and now you! It'll be Fred ne-” Ginny stops suddenly short, and she puts her hand over her own mouth as the table falls into a sudden hush. Mrs Weasley – no, _Molly_ – goes still where she'd been bringing a bowl of potatoes over to the table, Mr- _Arthur_ is frozen at its head. Ron stares at his own half-filled plate, and Harry swallows, uncertain.

“Well, no. Harry's never going to reach my dear old brother's fine standards of smarmery,” George says firmly, and he straightens suddenly, and he _grins_ at Ginny. “He'd roll in his grave at the _thought_ of someone challenging his record – you know how much of a _stickler_ he was for authority.” Ginny lets out a shocked little laugh, and she doesn't cry, she doesn't cry, and Harry laughs too, if nervously. “Wasn't he, Mum? He'd never allow your authority to go ignored.”

Molly lets out a sort of soft, short noise as he moves to set the bowl down on the table, and she looks for a moment like she might begin to sob, but George grasps for her hand, and he _squeezes_ , comfortingly.

“No, George,” Molly says, “No, he was- he was very rule-abiding.”

“And law-abiding.” Harry manages to say, because he knows that levity is the Weasley family way.

“If not _custom_ abiding.” Percy manages to say, although he feels the most guilt – even more guilt than George himself, Harry thinks. Even with that, he makes a conscious effort to work less, to see his family more, and that's important, Harry supposes. He makes an effort to spend more time with the Weasleys as well – he doesn't replace Fred, and he doesn't fill the gap Bill and Charlie leave when they're not home, but Harry is there, and that's important.

That's what people keep insisting, anyway.

Once the banter is done with, Harry asks, politely, “Molly? Can you pass the carrots?” She stares at him, and for a second Harry is horrified, terrified that he's said the thing that's going to push her over the edge and make Molly Weasley _sob_ in his direction, but then she bursts into such a bright beam Harry forgets what it looks like when she frowns at all.

“Yes, dear.” She says, leaning to grasp at them.

“Oh, first name terms with our _Mum_ now, is it?” Ron asks, and Harry laughs.

“Oh, you should watch this one, Dad. He's obviously got designs in place,” George says faux-seriously; Molly begins to chuckle, very amused.

“I have designs only for your father, as you _well_ know.”

“Harry's our _father!?”_ Percy asks, with such realistic incredulity that for a moment everyone blinks at him; and Percy seems somewhat nonplussed by the sudden attention. “I just- it was a joke…?”

“He's too ugly to be our father.” Ginny says with that confirmation, and it goes back and forth, more banter, more laughter, and that's it, Harry supposes – that's what _family_ is meant to be, even when parts of it are missing. He smiles, eats his dinner, and lets his mind go to trying to one-up George with sarcasm rather than Lucius Malfoy.

It never lasts, of course.

“But the most _bizarre_ thing is – the money's come from the _Malfoys._ ” Arthur says, and suddenly Harry glances up from his half-consumed dessert, listening to Percy and his father as they explain the state of things to a rapt George and a far less interested Ginny and Ron.

“Why are the Malfoys giving money the Muggle Artefacts Office?” George asks. “Do they want to attack them with their own weapons or something?”

“The money they invested was free to use – it wasn't earmarked for particular purposes or anything! They just put in the money for the department – 500 _Galleons._ ” Arthur sounds positively incredulous, and Harry frowns slightly. “Lucius Malfoy has _designs_ , I can tell you, but what they are, I've no idea.”

“There's no contractual obligation to use it a particular way, then.” He says, and both Percy and Arthur turn to blink at him, as does everyone else. “Well, no need to look so _surprised_ – it's my job to know this stuff. Nothing's come across my desk involving the Malfoys at all.”

“Look at Harry, then.” Ginny says, nudging George. “He'll be a lawyer, next.”

“They want to invest in the shop.” George says, and though he puts an affectionate arm around Ginny's shoulder, he doesn't continue to tease Harry with her. He's more serious, these days, and more capable of turning his hilarity on and then off again. “Actually, _Narcissa_ wants to invest in the shop, specifically. In return for small shares, she wants to pay for us to expand, put a small off-shoot in Hogsmede, and another in Paris.”

“Just for shares? That seems terribly unambitious for a member of the Malfoy clan.” Percy says seriously, and Harry wants to feel bad because Ron looks bored out of his _skull_ , as does Ginny, but he can't help but want to know more.

“True, but he voted in support of a house-elf rights bill the other day.” Arthur says.

“Who? Lucius?”

“As I live and breathe, he voted for a non-discrimination bill.”

“I don't _believe_ it!”

“There's something going on with that little family of theirs.”

“Something suspicious.”

“I don't like it.” Harry says, and Percy shifts in his seat, leaning back against the wood of it.

“I don't know, Harry. It could be good for everyone.”

“Or it's a trick.” Ron says, and he sounds bitter – more bitter than Harry ever had, even with Draco. But then, the Weasley-Malfoy family rivalry seems to have been a long-standing affair. “You know what they're like, those slimy _snakes_.”

“Could be, Ronald.” Arthur says, and he sounds tired more than he sounds _irritated._ He despises Malfoy, Harry knows, but he doesn't think the man really has patience for a continuing rivalry these days. “Could be.”

\---

“Harry.” Lucius is at his doorway, and he holds a leather satchel in his right hand, his cane held firmly by his left. Harry stops short, his coat clasped in his hand, and he regards Lucius uncertainly – it's just a little past one o'clock, and he'd been about to lock up and go to lunch.

“Lucius.” Harry says awkwardly, and he can't help but wish it was the _junior_ Malfoy that was in his office, or even Narcissa – both have always been so much easier to read and understand, after all, and Lucius remains mysterious, enigmatic and distinctly more dangerous. “I was just abo-”

“Yes, go to lunch. You do regularly go off at one o'clock or so.” Harry regards Malfoy with an owlish, completely uncertain expression. “I thought I'd bring you a more _substantial_ meal than the, ah, _burgers_ served in the canteen.” The word “burger” doesn't sound quite correct in Lucius Malfoy's mouth, though perhaps he's been eating too many, as of recent. All the same, he doesn't seem to be putting on weight for the sake of it.

“I- thank you, um, Lucius, but I-”

“Am far too respectful a young man to refuse such an offer.” Malfoy interrupts him with a clear confidence Harry wishes he'd had years ago, but Harry gives a small nod of his head, and he hangs up his coat again before moving to settle in his seat once more. Lucius moves forwards, and he removes from the bag three plates with bowls neatly put over top of them. He removes each bowl, and suddenly steam comes up from each plate; Harry decides to focus on the plates set between them rather than the flicker of magic the elder man sends behind him to lock the door.

Harry regards the selection in a wide-eyed fashion; on one is a small set of six green tarts, and on the next is a pile of small pies made with filo pastry. The other plate is smaller and set to the side; upon it lies two decadently thick slices of what looks to be some sort of chocolate cake. Harry can _smell_ it too, the heavy scent of the fudge and the _syrup_ in it.

“Two tarts and a pie first, Harry.” Lucius says in a firm and steady tone, and Harry suddenly presses his knees together under the desk, very conscious of the _interest_ the instruction evokes in him. “At least.”

Harry's instinct is to politely say “Yes, sir.”, to nod his head and to take on the instruction; there's a very basic desire in him to be instructed, to delight in being told what to, but he knows from conversation that that tendency isn't _normal_ , and it's another example of Harry being a bit _wrong_. Harry does not follow his instinct: “What is this about, _Lucius_? One son isn't enough for you?”

“ _Son_?” Lucius repeats as Harry very carefully reaches for one of the small, savoury tarts, and he eats as neatly as he can manage, his spare hand cupped under his jaw to catch crumbs. Lucius looks _approving_ of the nerve-prompted fastidiousness, and for some reason that pleased expression makes Harry's heart _leap._ “I should think not.” It tastes good, the tart – it actually tastes positively _amazing_ , and it takes a strength of will not to moan around the pastry. “No, I have no wish to take you for a second _son_ , Harry.”

Harry swallows, and he considers the taste in his mouth; some vague taste of chutney, and _leek_ , and it's really, really good. He's never eaten something like this before. “Then, if I can as-”

“Eat up, Harry. You have always seemed terribly _thin_.” Lucius draws out the “n” sound, and Harry feels his mouth go dry, but he does his best to take another bite all the same. He swallows it down, and he eats the entirety of the tart within a few more moments. Lucius takes one of the pies and, meticulously, uses his wand to cut it into four equal pieces; the spinach and cheese within is a bizarrely appealing mix of green and white-yellow. He eats each with a small, measured bite, and Harry's gaze is drawn to the touch of Malfoy's fingers to his own lips as he does so.

The room feels _charged_ with something, something that is positively _electric_ but no less ill-advised, and Harry isn't sure what precisely he's experiencing and what precisely it _means_ , but he's quite aware of the fact that he has a yearning for more. Harry reaches for another tart, but Lucius interrupts: “No, no, Harry. Take a pie this time.”

Harry meets the other's eyes, and Lucius regards him sternly, sternly enough that Harry immediately obeys, and he takes a bite of the little pie, and this time he can't quite control it; he lets out a soft _sigh_ around the pastry and the cheese, closing his eyes for a moment.

“That's a good lad.” Lucius murmurs, and Harry coughs, patting his own chest to keep from chocking on his morsel, but before he can even ask Lucius is pressing a small glass of pumpkin juice into his hand, and he drinks from it obediently.

Obediently.

Why is he _obeying_ Lucius Malfoy? Why does “That's a good lad.” fill him with such mingled excitement and trepidation?

“Not a son, then.” Harry says, and he's beginning to wonder if Lucius wants something from him, wants something _important_ , even some sort of _sexual_ \- but no, no, he couldn't possibly. _Harry_ couldn't possibly.

“No, no. I should like to offer you something, Harry, should you give me what I wish for, in return.” Harry takes more bites of his pie, and then he very cautiously reaches for another tart. Lucius simply nods his head, and Harry begins to eat again. He feels hot, hot all over – not just in his cheeks, but in his neck, his chest, his legs, his crotch. He wishes wizarding robes had the same ability to remove layers as Muggle clothes do. Lucius waits, waits deliberately judging by his intent expression, for Harry to finish his second tart as well, and then he smoothly moves to stand, stepping slowly around the wood of the desk.

Harry remains frozen in his seat as Lucius makes step after step on the wood of Harry's office floor, and then he moves to stand directly behind the younger man. There's a pause, and then Lucius' fingers slide over Harry's shoulder blades, his hands a warm weight against his neck. Harry feels so drawn tight he cannot even _breathe._

“Mr Potter,” Lucius murmurs very quietly as he leans, and his mouth is against Harry's ear by the time he stops, and his breath is so _warm_ against the sensitive skin there. Harry stares directly forwards as Lucius' thumbs begin to _press_ into the muscle at the very top of Harry's spine, either side of it, and then he says, “I should like to have you in a far more _intimate_ capacity than my son.”

“Oh my God.” Harry whispers, and Lucius _chuckles_ , his hands moving from the other's shoulders down to cup his chest. Harry cannot _move_.

“Such a curious, Muggle mannerism that is. Wizards very rarely invoke _gods_ , and when they do, it is by name rather than title.” Lucius says, and his hands rove lower, down towards Harry's thighs; he lets out a sort of sharp, gasped-out noise, his hands flying to hold the other man's wrists tightly. It's _Lucius_ Malfoy, who is an ex- _Death_ Eater and is a _man_ , who is old enough to be Harry's father and has a _wife,_ and who likely is seducing him only in hopes of gaining something-

Harry just wants the _smallest_ bit of peace, and there's peace in obedience, but only if there's someone to give him _instruction._

“I- I can't-” Lucius' hands immediately come away from Harry's body, and Harry keenly feels the loss of those warm hands on his thighs. “Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“I don't- I don't want you to- to, um, to stop. Necessarily. I'd actually kinda like you to do _more_ , but-”

“Do you want a more _verbal_ explanation, Harry?” Lucius asks softly, and Harry nods his head, swallowing hard as he does so. “In that case, I shall give you one. I am _bored_ ,and I find there are few people who can afford me a particular pastime. Are you aware, my boy, of the idea of _dominance?”_

“Yeah.” Harry whispers, because that's _obvious._

“And do you know of its corresponding _submission_?”

“Uh.” He's not so certain. “I'm not sure. I think?”

“And have you considered those two concepts as interlocking pieces in a _sexual_ encounter?” Harry lets out a slow draw of breath. The way Lucius says _sexual_ makes his thighs quake.

“No.” Harry says, and maybe it's not completely true – maybe he's thought of stronger wizards than him throwing him about, leaving bruises on his skin and making him cry out for pain as well as pleasure. To those thoughts, he'd crossed his legs and done his best to think of something _else_ though – he's never allowed himself to act on them. “No, I haven't.”

“Well, _that_ , Harry, is what I want. Your _submission_ , in exchange for my _dominance.”_ Lucius' instruction, in exchange for Harry's obedience.

“You'll hurt me,” Harry says bluntly but for some _stupid_ reason he doesn't pull away, and Lucius hums.

“Yes.” Lucius agrees, and Harry stares at him. “That's rather the point, isn't it? Don't you _wish_ to be hurt?”

“How would _you_ know?” Harry voices the immediate question, and he can't think of anything except the fact that that cologne is so much stronger now, with Lucius so close, and he _inhales_ , drawing it into his lungs and letting the scent take him over for a moment.

“Why, it's quite _obvious_ , boy.” It takes a lot of willpower to restrain from biting his lip in response to that, but Harry _does_ want _,_ would _love_ , to be hurt. And yet- and _yet_ -

“You have a wife.” There's a pause, and Lucius steps about the desk, regarding Harry with a sort of perplexity on his face; he honestly looks _confused_.

“Yes.” Lucius says, and he moves to seat himself in the seat again: mention of Narcissa seems to have interrupted whatever sexual offer was on the table, and something sinks in Harry's chest. He regards Harry for a few moments, gaze imploring, and then he says, “Narcissa is a perfectly charming woman, but she hardly appreciates these _particular_ games.”

“Perfectly charming, but you want to have sex with someone else?”

“I hardly married her for being especially _attracted._ It was a marriage of means and political value.”

“Wow, and you guys have such a reputation for being caring and loving.” Lucius' lip _twitches._

Harry begins to wonder if Pureblood aristocracy thinks of marriage as something entirely different to what he does – and actually, that would probably make more _sense._ If it's all political marriages, like Sirius had used to talk about, then Lucius' confusion is framed in a more comprehensible light.

“Oh.” Harry says. Lucius leans, and with a neat flick of his wand – and he does it non-verbally with the ease Harry has come to expect of Purebloods at this point – he affects the plate to split into two instead, each with one of the pieces of cake atop its white surface.

“The pursuit of _pleasure_ , I find, Harry, should always be kept quite separate from one's politics, where suitable.” He slides one plate to Harry, and the scent seems stronger now, more _intoxicating._ Lucius's smile is slowly returning to his lips, and it seems _sultrier_ now, more seductive. “Pleasure ought be sought wherever it can be found.”

He's a _murderer_. He's _killed_ people, and for some reason Harry's tongue seems heavy in his throat, his mouth dry, his cheeks still warm. “Right.” Harry says, and he takes the conjured fork when Lucius presses it to his fingers, looking from its tines to the cake to Lucius' smug, _intent_ expression.

“Take a bite.” Lucius murmurs, and Harry moves to do so, very slowly curling a piece of the cake on the fork before bringing it to his mouth. He takes the bite, lets his lips draw over the silver tines of the fork, and he chews, swallows. Lucius is watching him with _fascination_.

“It's good.” Harry manages to say, and Lucius leans back in the chair, pushing back slightly. The chocolate fills his mouth, rich, decadently exquisite, and he can't help but wonder how many people the Malfoys employ in their kitchen, or how many house-elves they have there – surely they can't _afford_ it now, after the war?

“Come here, Harry.” He says, and Harry takes in a very slow, slow breath, but he stands up, stands and moves around the desk. Why is he doing this? Why is he-

Because he wants to. He wants to _desperately_ , and he's never really been able to do much he's wanted to, not in the scheme of things.

He's shaking like a leaf, but he still takes two steps forwards, towards Lucius Malfoy, and he spreads his legs as Harry comes closer, leaning back even further in his seat as he looks up at Harry with an expression on his face that seems completely satisfied with the way Harry is moving toward him.

“Have you ever partaken of a man, _Harry?”_ Lucius says, and his hands move to grasp at Harry's hips, thumbs pressing into the bone as he pulls Harry bodily forwards, until his legs are just between Lucius' knees.

“Don't see how that's any of your business.” Harry retorts, and Lucius lets out an amused little huff of laughter, playing over the fabric of Harry's robes and letting his hands cup the other's thighs through the green. Lucius pulls him abruptly close, and Harry stumbles a little, his hands resting on the older man's shoulders, and he looks right down at the other's face.

“Don't you? Perhaps I ought to _demonstrate_.” Every vowel is drawn out, every consonant perfectly enunciated, and Harry swallows as Lucius' fingers slide down his legs, hooking under his knees. Harry _knows_ his breathing has gotten quicker, realizes the way he's almost panting from his place against the other's chest, but some part of him wants for the other man to _touch_ him.

He's had sex with men before, but it'd been awkward, hurried, with Muggle men he was certain wouldn't know who he _was_ – that's the case, usually. He hates the idea of ending up in bed with anyone who might photograph him, talk to the Prophet, or anything similar. _Sharing_ a bed with someone is a bit uncomfortable for him as yet, and he's not sure that's going to change.

The nightmares make it hard.

“Yeah?” Harry manages to say, and he swallows _hard_ as Lucius' fingers dip and then slide up under his robes to cup the flesh of his arse.

“Oh, yes.” Lucius says firmly, and he _squeezes_ , and Harry lets out a sort of breathy sound. He leans, then, letting his knees bend slightly as he tries to move in for a kiss, but Lucius leans back slightly, drawing back just when Harry is but an inch away. “Ah-ah-ah. Patience is a virtue, _Harry_.”

With that, he pushes Harry back, and he's left shocked for a moment, disappointment sinking in his chest (followed immediately by a surge of guilt for how strong that disappointment is).

“Enjoy the rest of your cake.” Lucius murmurs, and he stands, vanishing what excess is left on the table and unlocking the door in two swift flicks of his wand.

\---

Harry does not see Lucius Malfoy for the next week or so, until he's up several floors and arguing with Percy Weasley about paperwork standards.

“But this wasn't my _fault_.”

“I _know_ it wasn't your fault! I'm not saying it was your fault, Percy, but I'm specifically forbidden from contacting Muggle offices, so if someone forgets to put in the Muggle half of the paperwork in, I have to come and talk to _you_.”

“We collected the Muggle paperwork!” Percy says, and God, he's such a _stickler_ for this bloody stuff, but he's such a _stubborn_ man. “We collected it from the Muggle enforcement office.”

“Yes, I _know_ , but it's not in the file, so I need you to _call_ them and get another copy.”

“But we already have one!”

“Well, _**where**_ , Percy? Show me where and I'll _piss_ off!”

“Is there something _wrong_ here?” Both Percy and Harry turn sharply, and Lucius Malfoy hovers in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts doorway, one brow gracefully arched.

“Nothing at all, Mr Malfoy.” Percy says crisply, and he grasps the file in Harry's hand, taking it from him. “I'll send this down to you with the new copy this afternoon.”

“ _Thank_ you.” Harry says, irritation obvious in his voice, and he moves out from the office, then, moving past Malfoy – who, of course, falls into step behind him as he makes his way towards the lifts.

“You could hear us in the corridor then, Mr Malfoy?”

“I could indeed, Mr Potter.” Lucius says cleanly, and then he adds, “My family now has particular links with the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office.”

“So I've heard.” Harry returns, and it's weird – he can engage in this sort of public political talk, intended to bite back and forth. He hears it in the corridors all the time, but he's never really engaged in it himself, and he's surprised by the fact that he's _enjoying_ it somewhat. “You've donated rather generously.”

“I should think my money is well spent.”

“Yeah? Seems you've changed your tune in recent years.” It's bizarre, Harry supposes, that in private he can press his body right against the other man's at the simplest of command (God, maybe he's just _weak_ ), and here in public he's playing political back and _forth_ with him.

“I'm hardly the only one to have done so, with the war in mind.”

“Interesting way of phrasing it.” Harry says, and Lucius looks down at him with a perplexed expression.

“How so?”

“Well, just saying _I_ when it's obviously Narcissa and Draco's decision rather than yours.” Lucius _scowls_ at him, and Harry smirks a little as he grasps at the handles on the lift ceiling. He wasn't sorted  _into_ Slytherin, after all, but over the years he's become a little better at observation and at gleaning information  _from_ it. He's not completely surprised when Lucius accompanies him back to his office, and not completely _disappointed_ , either, but once the door closes shut behind them Lucius has Harry pinned against the wall, a hand around his throat.

Harry goes for his wand, but Lucius says, “You are an _alluring_ creature.”, and Harry shivers when he realizes this is _play_ as opposed to actual threat.

“D'you think so?”

“Outside of the _Weasleys_ , there are few in this building who would dare speak to me like that. So candidly, so _sharply._ ” Lucius murmurs, and he _squeezes_ the sides of Harry's jaw; whatever twisted part of him that makes him want to spare the child to have the rod himself affects him to press directly into the touch.

“What, does that turn you on?” The other man furrows his brow, evidently confused by the phrasing, and Harry amends, “Um. Arouse you.” Lucius presses his lips together, amused.

“Not precisely. I believe what _turns me on_ , Harry,” Lucius says, and his hands roam over the other's robes. Harry presses up and into it, his own hands shifting awkwardly at his sides, “is considering the concept of _punishing_ you for it later.”

“P-punishing me?” Harry repeats, because the word – especially the way this man says it – sends _shocks_ through him in a way it _never_ had when the threat had come at Hogwarts.

“Quite.” Lucius says quietly, tone _awash_ with some sort of anticipation, and then he says, “I'd like to see you tonight.” Harry lets out a soft exhalation, pressing close to the other man. He hesitates, the words remaining tight to his tongue for a few moments, but then Harry decides to be more _impulsive_ for once.

“Come home with me.” He says, and Lucius regards him thoughtfully.

“To Grimmauld Place?” It shocks him, for a second: he forgets every Death Eater probably knows about Grimmauld Place, now the war is over.

“No.” Harry says; Kreacher keeps Grimmauld Place in perfect conditions, but he has an apartment closer to the Ministry building which is smaller, easy to upkeep himself, and less infamous. Also, he can have a washing machine that works – in Grimmauld Place, such things are interrupted by the magic in the air, and he's never got the hang of magical cleaning charms.

“ _If_ Master would permit it,” Kreacher had croaked, expression distinctly disapproving. “ _Kreacher_ could clean Master Potter's clothes.” but, much to his chagrin, Harry had insisted on easier, more comfortable jobs for the (somewhat elderly) house-elf.

The idea strikes him with sudden amusement – no doubt the man against him would find the concept obscene.

“Not to Grimmauld Place; I live somewhere else.” Harry says, and Lucius hums, stepping back.

“Very well.” Harry watches him go from his office, and then he moves to pick up the stacked files upon his desk, and he moves down to begin putting them away – he feels _excitement_ , trepidation, shame. Ron would kill him if he knew, kill him in less than a few seconds, and yet it's not quite a sufficient deterrent.

But surely it's better? Lucius Malfoy's reputation would be _damaged_ as much as Harry's if their relationship were to be made public, and even if he's not a good _person_ , perhaps that's better too. Harry is _broken_ in some parts, he's certain of it – he's tired, and he has his issues, and trusting is _difficult_ for romance.

And this isn't romance – it's just sex with an ex-Death Eater, which is probably worse, by most people's standards.

\---

“This is me.” Harry murmurs, and he gestures for Lucius to step into the little Muggle flat before him. It's cosy, tremendously so, but it's quite conspicuously designed for the comfort of only one person, and there is no space at all to allow for more, in the long term.

The living room is covered floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with bookshelves that are full to the very brim, and in the centre of the room rests a deep green rug, atop which is a small, square table stacked with a few books and some letters Harry has yet to respond to. In one space in the shelves, a large mirror hangs on the wall, and on the shorter shelf's top, beneath the mirror, are a series of trinkets and a box for the letters Harry keeps. Tiny as it is, the room is quite _full,_ and there are no sofas, no chairs.

Lucius turns, and Harry watches him as the older man examines Harry's little kitchen, with its washing machine, its toaster, its general _Muggleness_.

Harry steps past him, and he moves to the door across the room, turning its handle and leaning back into his bedroom, regarding Lucius with a silent expectation. Malfoy _smirks_ , and suddenly his expression seems far more-

 _Something_.

Sadistic, perhaps? Predatory?

Regardless of what exactly you could _call_ that face, it sends _jolts_ up Harry's spine, and he swallows as he steps back; Lucius Malfoy follows. In the doorway, he stops short, eyebrows raising in some surprise; the bedroom is just a four poster bed, a big, forest green armchair and more walls covered with shelves of books.

“What?” Harry asks, and Malfoy _chuckles_ before he replies.

“I merely did not realize, _Harry_ , that you had such fondness for Slytherin _hues_.” Harry frowns, looking from Lucius to the rest of the room, and he supposes he had gone for deep greens, in all truth. Ignoring the hundreds of books on each shelf (he'd really gotten into collecting them over the years, on all manner of magical topics), the curtains on the bed, the armchair, the walls-

Well, it is a lot of _green._

Lucius is quite suddenly at his back, his mouth against Harry's neck, and his hands settle upon Harry's hips through the fabric of his work robes. Harry takes out his wand and casts a quick charm on his single bed, watching it widen slightly to accommodate a partner, and Lucius _chuckles_ , his breath hot against the flesh of Harry's skin. He reaches, then, and one gloved hand takes Harry's wand from his hand.

For some reason it makes Harry _relax_ , and he lets out a soft sigh of noise as he leans back against the other man's chest.

“What do you want me to _do_ to you, hmm, _Mr_ Potter?” Harry lets out a sort of awkward, sharp noise. That shouldn't make him feel _anything_ , that little _Mr_ , having his last name spoken with faux-politeness directly into his ear, but he feels like he might shake apart between the other's hands and Malfoy hasn't even _touched_ him yet.

“I'm- not sure. Mr- L-” He doesn't know what to say, has no idea what to say, and then he says, “Sir.” It feels right, on one level, but on another it feels _filthy_ , and he feels heat rise in his cheeks.

“There we are.” Lucius murmurs, and he abruptly sets Harry's wand aside, setting it to fly across the room and land on Harry's bedside table. He turns Harry around, and his fingers move swiftly over the fastenings on Harry's robes, and Harry lets him, leans slightly into the touch as Lucius' fingers move to undress him as rapidly as possible.

“You could just use a spell.” Harry whispers, and Lucius lets out a thoughtful croon of sound.

“I _could_.” He pushes the robe back from Harry's shoulders, then, revealing skin that's marked with scars, and then the robe is cast uncaringly aside. “You are _delectable_.”

“Ditto, I _guess_.” Lucius lets out a short, amused huff of sound against the back of Harry's neck at the awkward return of the compliment, and then he taps Harry's hip.

“Shoes.” Harry hesitates, for just a second or two, and then he obeys, kicking off the unobtrusive brogues he wears – they're neither plainly magical nor Muggle, selected to be as plain as possible, and once he's barefoot with his socks left aside, Lucius _beams_ down at him.

He looks positively _delighted_ , and Harry knows that some part of him should be frightened by that.

“You really like that I'm naked and you're not, don't you?” Harry manages to say, and Lucius' lip twitches as he touches an old scar on his hip from being hit by his cousin's bike when he was nine, touches over a bruise on Harry's thigh from getting jostled against some idiot's _post trolley_ in the elevator.

“I do, in fact.” And then he pushes Harry back with an easy little _shove_ , apparently enjoying the way he stumbles until the backs of his thighs hit his bed. “Lie down.”

“Why sh-” Harry gasps in a breath when the other man's hand abruptly wraps around the top of his throat, thumb and forefinger _just_ squeezing below his jaw. A pause, and Harry wheezes. Lucius' hand reminds tight, his expression concentrated and just slightly amused, and Harry struggles for a second, one hand loosely moving to wrap around the older man's wrist, and he's dizzy, just slightly dizzy, can't quite-

Harry's left gasping as Lucius tips him backwards, and he falls onto his back on the mattress, heaving in breaths. He stares up at him, uncertain what to _say_ as he massages his own throat, and after a short pause, Lucius says, “You're a masochist.”

“What?”

“A _masochist_. You enjoy being _hurt_.” Harry realizes that his cock is twitching with interest at his belly, that his skin is _tingling_ and he wants to be _touched_. Lucius doesn't seem displeased.

“So?” Harry says sharply, and tries to hide the way his cheeks flush and he _shivers_ , because it's embarrassing and it means there's something _wrong_ with him, because you're not meant to _like_ it when one of your friend's brothers claps you just a bit too hard on the back and it leaves the slightest bruise. What _isn't_ wrong with Harry? He wants to have sex with _men_ as well as women, is generally attracted to people a little older than him, he wants men to _hurt_ him, and he's caused the deaths of _so_ many people, no matter how many others he might have saved.

“So...” Lucius leans forwards, curling white fingers around the flesh of Harry's knees and then pushing his legs apart, spreading his thighs. “ _I_ , Mr Potter, am a sadist.” He pushes up, until Harry's legs are slightly in the air and his heels are at level with Lucius' knees.

“Oh.” Harry says, and Lucius smirks at him before his hand moves with lightning rapidity and smacks _hard_ against the inside of Harry's thigh. It's just close enough to his cock that Harry feels a flash of panic, and then it's a hot pain that _kills_ before it lingers on the skin, affecting it to warm and to tingle, and he lets out a ragged sound, head dropping back.

His head drops back, but he tilts his hips _up_.

There's a tense silence as Lucius' hand slips down, thumb pressing against the newly-made-pink flesh: there's a lot of muscle to Harry's legs, thanks to Quidditch and a run every morning, and perhaps that's why Lucius presses so _hard_.

“Do it again.” Harry says, and Lucius' reaction to the imperative is immediate, his hand moving to grasp at Harry's balls, and he lets out a harsh, desperate little noise because he doesn't want _that_ much pain-

“Mr Potter, I don't want you to have any illusions,” Lucius murmurs, and he leans over the younger man, hand tightening _just_ slightly, but not too painfully, not yet, “I will not be gentle with you. I will not be _soft_ with you. And **I** will give the orders: _you_ will not. Is that quite understood?”

Something rushes through Harry, something exhilarating and just like ecstasy, and when he breathes in he _needs_ it, because for a few long seconds he forgot how to make his lungs inflate.

“Let me make something clear to _you_ , **Malfoy,** ” comes Harry's response, and then he continues, stiff tone quavering a little, “I'm not gonna be _obedient_ for you. I'm not your house elf, and I'm not your _son_ : I'm gonna do what I want, and I'll do what _you_ want if it suits _me_.”

“ _Does_ it suit you?” Lucius asks, looking amused, and Harry frowns at him, brow knitting together. He'd been expecting an _insult_ , not a question.

“Um. I guess.”

“There we are then: you _will_ be obedient, and when you are not, _I will_ punish you. I should think you'll enjoy that most of all.”

“What sort of punishment?” The question comes almost unbidden from Harry's lips, curiosity and arousal overpowering any wish to be ungracious.

“That, Mr Potter, remains to be seen.” Lucius' tone is even, almost reasonable, and Harry feels so _vulnerable_ like this, one of the other's hands steady on his knee, the other wrapped around his bollocks – which, at this point, is actually somewhat awkward – with Lucius looking down at him. “Now, if it's quite _alright_ with you, shall I continue laying attention on these thighs of yours until sitting down without a wince is merely a fantasy?”

“Laying attention.” Harry repeats mockingly, unable to resist. Lucius smacks his other thigh hard, and Harry arches with a harsh noise.

“That would be a _yes_ in your mind, I suppose. On your belly, Mr Potter, if you please.”

“What if I don't please?”

“I believe I have demonstrated what will happen if you _don't_ please.” Lucius says, some impatience showing through.

“Maybe I want _another_ demonstration.” Harry says, and he doesn't know why he's so determined to be rebellious, why he wants to make Malfoy _angry_ – surely it's something he should be trying to avoid, rather than to engender. Lucius, in a display of outward thought Harry would never have expected from such an _aristocratic_ apparent gentleman, puts his tongue against his cheek so that the flesh shifts with it.

“Maybe you do. Mr Potter, I'm going to give you an order now, and it is _vital_ that you obey it – I will allow for little rebellions in this charming little endeavour, but _this_ I will require. If you are distressed, if I've hurt you too much, if you are panicking, if you need for me to _stop_ – for any reason at all – you will say “snitch”.”

“Why would I-”

“Mr _Potter_.” Lucius says sharply in a way that would brook no ignorance; for a bizarre and striking second Harry is reminded of Severus Snape. “Am I understood?”

A pause, and then, “Yes. Sir.”

“Good.” And then Lucius grabs him by the hair, pulling him up with rapidity and pressing their lips together, so furiously Harry thinks for a second that Lucius will just bite at him and tear him apart, and Harry lets out a short, desperate noise into Lucius' mouth as he leans into the older man. And then he drags Harry across the room with him stumbling and _gasping_ at the way that it _hurts_ , God, Merlin, who knew having your hair pulled could ever hurt so much–?

Harry registers that Lucius has turned his armchair around only when he's bent over its high back, and when Lucius lets him go he touches at his own hair, rubbing at his scalp. “If you want to be hurt, Potter, I can always lend a helping hand,” Lucius says, “but blatant disrespect will lead to less immediate satisfaction.”

Harry opens his mouth, wanting to ask for a little further explanation, but then the palm of Lucius' hand slams down onto Harry's arse, and it _burns_ with sudden pain, making him jolt against the chair. His knees buckle, and its the chair that holds him up. Lucius hits him again, on the other side, and then again and again, each blow landing flat against the skin and _electrifying_ the paler skin – he hits Harry from cheek down to his mid-thigh, and soon enough the pain blends together, instead just lingering as sweet _heat_.

He feels odd, bizarre, slightly detached, and it actually feels _good_ , so good-

Harry doesn't realize Lucius has stopped until the blond pulls him up, very gently touching his chin and raising his head to look into Harry's eyes. Harry leans into the touch, eyes half-lidding – is this bliss? Is this what ecstasy feels like?

He hears Lucius tut as if it's from far away, and Harry is carried back toward the bed, brought up to the pillow and laid on his side.

“It hurts.” He whispers when Lucius drags a featherlight touch over the burning skin of his arse, and Lucius hums.

“That tends to be the case when someone smacks your backside.” Harry lets out a giggle, and then stops, _surprised_ at himself – he doesn't think he's giggled before. Lucius' hand moves from his back around to his front, and then it wraps around Harry's prick – he'd almost forgotten about it, forgotten he'd wanted to _come_ a second ago, and he lets out a soft moan.

It's a combination of the warmth and pricking pain on his thighs and the touch that makes him come apart so quickly, and he isn't surprised when Lucius lets out a short, disgusted noise and flicks his hand, quickly casting a spell to clean up the _mess_. Prissy bastard.

“You're so _vain_.” Harry says.

“One can get quite far by being _vain_ , Harry.” They're back to Harry now, are they? Harry looks at Lucius with slight perplexity. “Is it fading?”

“Is what fading?”

“Do you not feel euphoric?”

“Mmm.” Harry says, but as he thinks about it the _rush_ seems to be dissipating, the pain on his arse is more real now, _closer_. It actually hurts, and this time when Lucius touches the backs of his thighs he flinches instead of pressing into the touch. “Ah, that's- _bloody Hell_ , that's-”

“The pain brought you to a threshold of sorts, until you started feeling _good_ as opposed to bad. It's quite an experience, hmm?”

“I want, I really wanna-” Harry registers, almost suddenly, that Lucius' chest is pressed against his back, feels Lucius' breath on the back of his neck, feels how _close_ he is, and he's struck with a sudden claustrophobia, because Lucius is too _close_. He takes in a breath and he pulls away: Lucius lets him, sitting back on the edge of the bed and watching as Harry sits up, groans regretfully, and then lies on his side again. “Sorry.”

“Quite fine. Lie on your belly.” Harry leans back, lips pressed together.

“I don't really want- I could suck-”

“Not for _sex_ , boy.” Lucius says with a bizarre apparent fondness, apparently _charmed_ by Harry's reluctance. “I'm going to put a balm on your backside so you're capable of sitting down this week.” Harry blinks at him, and then slowly moves to lie on his chest, arms underneath him. Lucius doesn't take long to move and he hears the metal cap of some container unscrewing, and then Lucius' fingers touch against his arse, and the balm is cool and it _soothes_ the ache in the new bruises. “Bizarre though it might seem, I do need you to _trust_ that what I do will be to your benefit. I'm not going to _murder_ you.”

“That remains to be seen.” Harry says, mocking what the other had said earlier, and Lucius' chuckle is quiet but in good humour nonetheless.

“Sleep on your chest tonight.” Lucius advises, tapping the back of his calf, and then he moves to stand. Harry whips his head around, frowning.

“You're going?” Lucius raises an eyebrow.

“Is that a problem?”

“I just- assumed you'd want to stay.” Harry says. Time and time again, he's gone home with some girl or other, or brought someone home, and they'd stayed, or _he'd_ stayed. He's never been able to sleep with someone else in bed with him, and relief floods through him.

“Do you _want_ me to stay, Harry? I had no intention of cuddling you all night and brushing your hair _sweetly_ with my fingers.” Harry laughs a little, somewhat comforted by the older man's sarcasm.

“No. I can't sleep with someone else in my bed.” Harry doesn't know why he admits it, why he tells him something so _revealing_ , but Lucius doesn't seem put off by the statement.

“Neither can I,” Lucius replies, and then continues, “Good evening, Harry.” His face is unreadable.

“Good night, Lucius.” Harry says, and he grasps at the blanket underneath him, pulling it over his body. He hears the door in the front room of his flat open, and then close, and he realizes when he puts his head to the pillow how suddenly _tired_ he is. He sleeps, and for once he has neither dreams _nor_ nightmares.

\---

“I've got your file, Harry.” Percy says, and Harry takes it, offering the other man a slight smile.

“I'm sorry I got so irritated about it, Percy – but it _is_ policy-”

“I know, I know-” Percy says lightly, waving it off, but he frowns a little at Harry, not leaving him be yet. “I was just, you know, a little worried – apparently Malfoy's come down to see you a few times, and when he interrupted us the other day. Getting a little pally with him, aren't you?” Harry's expression remains owlish, and then he tries to backtrack and seem more reasonable.

“Oh, Perce, he's not being too bad, he's just trying to sort out some paperwo-” It's strange, how easily the lie comes to his lips, and how easily Percy cuts through it.

“I know he's charming and all, Harry, but he's into some weird stuff.” Harry stares at him, his eyes slightly wide, and he notes that Percy's ears have gone red. “Just- don't. He'll want to hurt you.”

“Right.” Harry says quietly. What else should he say? _Really,_ no one ever told him what you should say when a bloke who's a bit like your older brother warns you that the bloke who you really like hurting you probably likes hurting you. “Alright, Percy, I hear you.”

“S'alright.” Percy says shortly, and the blush is starting to flood from his ears to his cheeks, making his freckles connect. “I'll, um, I'll see you later.” And then he bustles off, the back of his neck almost the same colour as his hair.

Harry moves back to his own office, and he looks at his chair, considering sitting down to have a cup of tea, but then he shifts and feels the slight _pain_ on the backs of his thighs; the balm had soothed away the pain last night and dimmed the bloom of the bruises, but it hadn't gotten _rid_ of them.

Instead, he picks up the stack on his desk, dropping Percy's evidence retrieval file on the top, and disappears into the file room to work.

\---

“Hello, Lucius.” Harry says as he comes out of the file room, and he's more than satisfied by the slight astonishment that goes over the older man's face for a fraction of a second, before it becomes composed once more.

“Harry.” Lucius is wearing basil green robes today, with emerald-shining ribbon instead of buttons holding them closed, and the sleeves are wide, old-fashioned; that style is coming back, so Witch Weekly had declared on its cover last week. “How, pray, is your backside?”

“S'alright.” Harry says, flicking his wand in the direction of the door to shut it closed. “How's yours?”

“Assiduously placed above my thighs, where it belongs, and quite untouched. As I prefer it.” Harry lets out a snort of laughter, regarding the older man with a bemused expression.

“You're funny.”

“I retain wit, at times.”

“You're _funny_.” Harry insists, and Lucius regards him with slightly raised, silver eyebrows, expression composed. “I've got a recognition ward up.”

“I guessed.” Lucius says lightly, and then adds, “Warding has always been my favourite sort of magic.”

“Really?” Harry asks, and he moves to pour water into his kettle from his wand before setting it to levitate and to boil.

“Indeed. I specialized in them after Hogwarts.” Harry turns to look at him, expression thoughtful as he conjures two mugs and two teabags from home.

“You don't work in wards now.”

“No,” Lucius murmurs, “I entered politics. It is- _uncommon_ for men of my class to _work._ Particularly when such work involves base tasks such as home maintenance.”

“But you like it.” Harry points out, thinking of the delight with which Arthur Weasley had worked in the Muggle Artefact office for all those years, even though he could have applied for a promotion so many times.

“To some extent.” Harry begins to make the tea, a slight frown twisting his features, and he passes the first to Lucius, watching the way he sips – politely. It's a tiny movement of his lips and hands, aristocratic. “There is a _reason_ for our traditions, you know. It is not merely ignorance on our behalves.”

“Why do you call us blood traitors?” Harry asks, and he sits on the edge of his desk, feet just moving to touch against the other man's knees.

“Pardon?” Lucius asks, and his tone is not particularly emotional, but his expression is obviously suspicious.

“No one has ever explained any of this stuff to me, you know. Why you lot act the way you do. Why you're so scared of Muggles. There must be reasoning to it.” Harry is curious, in all truth – he doesn't believe the reasoning makes _sense_ , of course, but he wants to _know_. “I didn't come into magical society 'til I was eleven. I wasn't raised into it. Why do you call us _blood traitors_?”

“Because you are _betraying_ your blood.” Lucius says simply. “By marrying outside of magical lines, by sympathizing with Muggles. They are a _danger_ to us, Harry, to wizarding society as a whole.” He seems almost pleased that Harry is letting him explain this.

“Do you know what genes are?” Harry asks, and Lucius stares at him, expression momentarily uncertain.

“They're Muggle garments,” Lucius says reluctantly, and then begins to explain, “Trousers made of some sort of-”

“No. That's jeans: J-E-A-N. This is genes: G-E-N-E. Genes are these little things that make up something called DNA. DNA is like computer c-” Lucius' expression looks so blank. “Right, you know with traditional enchantments and stuff, runes are carved into rock or sewn into fabric?”

“I believe I did _just_ say wards were my speciality.” Lucius says stoutly.

“And the runes all create a sort of code, don't they? A list of instructions for the magic to follow, so that they _create_ the ward.”

“Yes.”

“Genes are the runes in DNA, which is the rock or the fabric. And the wards are us. People. DNA is in _every_ living thing, from plants to cats to people, and it like, decides why people are the way they are. And when people are born, DNA combines from both parents to make the person, right? So that's why I look so much like my dad, 'cause I inherited a lot of the genes from him that decide how I look, but I got the genes that decide eye pigment from my mum.”

Lucius seems sceptical as he looks at Harry from behind his mug of tea. “So these _genes_ make a man. And?”

“There are different genes for different things. Some are for things like diseases, really horrible diseases and disabilities and stuff that are inherited. Someone can _have_ a gene for something like that without it being, uh-” Merlin, Harry doesn't actually _know_ this stuff that well – he knows the gist of it, but he doesn't know the _science_. If only Hermione were here. “It's like, potions ingredients. They don't _do_ stuff until they're combined with other ingredients, yeah? And these genes that aren't active, they're still inherited. They don't _do_ anything 'til they're combined with similar genes.”

Lucius looks unimpressed.

“So when you have a kid with your cousin, who has the same gene for like, um, I dunno. Whatever made _Bellatrix_ the way she was-” Lucius chokes on his tea, and almost spills some of it on the fabric of his robe, doing his best to swallow his laughter as he sets the cup aside. “It's combined. And you don't get the opportunity to add _new_ stuff to the DNA, like you do combining with people that aren't related to, but you just concentrate the bad stuff over and over.”

“And this is some made-up Muggle information?”

“It's not _made-up_ , Lucius, it's science.”

“Alchemy is a science; a waste of time for anyone without a Philosopher's stone.”

“No, it's not- that's not what it is.”

“What _is_ it, then?”

“ **Science** is just- the Muggles think of a theory, and then they research and experiment to prove it.”

“And they proved this?”

“Well, yeah, but they did it by looking at stuff under microscopes.”

“What are microscopes?”

“They let you look at really tiny stuff.”

“… Ants?”

“No, not _ants_ , way smaller – the cells that make up the ants.”

“Cells? Like gaol cells?”

“ _No_ , they're these things that- they're-” This is beyond his knowledge. “Let's go have lunch.”

“We're abandoning your attempt to convert me to this Muggle religion, then?” Lucius asks amusedly, and Harry stares at him.

“For the time being.” Harry says grudgingly, and Lucius chuckles, amused. With that, he stands, and he offers Harry his arm.

“I'm not-”

“Mr _Potter_.” Lucius says commandingly.

“Are we Harry and Lucius when we're on equal ground and Mr and Mr when you're telling me what to do?” Lucius blinks at the sudden and _honest_ question, and then he gives a graceful bow of his head.

“You couldn't glean that implicitly?” Lucius asks, expression somewhat expectant.

“I'm a Gryffindor.” Harry says as if it's an explanation, and Lucius, to his credit, takes it as one.

“Fair point. My _arm_.” Harry steps forwards, linking their arms and letting his fingers curl around Lucius', squeezing slightly at the green fabric of the sleeve and the muscle underneath. Lucius grasps at his cane, then, touching its head to a brooch on his robe front, and Harry feels the familiar _hook_ at his belly, pulling him forwards-

When his feet hit ground again half his _body_ is against the older man's, and he's holding Malfoy so tightly he feels he might actually hurt the bloke; when they stop moving he pulls away, heaving in a breath as he looks around.

“Where are we?” Harry asks: they seem to be in a fancy enough area, just ahead of a large building of white brick before them. Magical vines curl up the building's marble-shining pillars, and they flicker in the light wind, their flowers regularly changing from blue to red to yellow and then back through the cycle once more.

“Lyon.” Lucius answers shortly, and he offers his arm once more; Harry takes it this time, without complaint. “Do you speak French?”

“No.”

“Are you in the mood for play this afternoon, _Mr_ Potter?”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Harry says softly, and he elects to _trust_ for the time being, because it'd be too obvious if Lucius tried to kill him, way too obvious. “Play like the other night?”

“Not exactly. This is a public setting, and subsequently I would advise keeping your clothes on.”

“And I had my heart set on streaking, too.” Lucius huffs an amused noise, and then he leads Harry up the path and into the building. It _is_ a restaurant, Harry realizes, carpeted and curtained in red, with round tables that are clothed in white. The combination is nice, he supposes, especially with the gold in the candles and chandeliers, but the room is _huge_ , ridiculously huge. “Where are we?” Harry asks again.

“Lyon. This is a restaurant. It is very important that you obey my instructions and treat me respectfully.”

“Bet you say that to all the boy-”

“I am _not_ joking, Mr Potter.”

“Nor am I.”

“Shut up.” Harry lets out a little laugh, and he lets Lucius lead him to a table, allowing Lucius to push him to sit. He looks around, and he sees other tables – all with just two or three people seated at them, but he sees no waiters, no waitresses, no _staff_. He continues to look, and when he glances back to the table, there's a menu on the table, bound in red leather and decorated in a gold filigree.

“But- but where-”

“Magic.” Lucius answers airily as he peruses his own, elegant fingers paging through. Harry's gaze feels more drawn to Lucius' fingers than usual, and he stares at them, mouth suddenly going dry as he thinks of those fingers curled around his neck, sliding down his thighs, grasping at his arse- “Resist it, Mr Potter. We _are_ here to eat.”

Harry lets out a quiet exhalation, and his arse _twinges_ as he leans forwards, opening up the menu. It's in English, at least, but so much of it is _foreign_ to him, fancy dishes he's never so much as heard of, let alone tried. He doesn't _know_ what to pick – he has a thought, a vague thought probably provoked by whatever magic is making him think of Lucius having him over his table, of just picking something to impress the older man, but he doesn't know what _would_ impress him, and really, why would he want to?

The inevitable question comes easily: “Do you feel it as well?”

“Whenever I look at you.” Harry looks up from his menu, staring at him, but Lucius' gaze is focused on the page before him, concentrating on one item, and then the next, and then the next. He stares at Lucius, and then he thinks of Percy Weasley, thinks of his little _warning_.

Maybe this is the wrong decision, but he _wants_ , so desperately wants to have something just for _him_ , and Lucius is that. Merlin knows no one _else_ will approve of the decision.

“House's red wine.” Lucius says. “Preference as to a drink, Harry?”

“Just water.”

“Good.” There's a pause, and Harry is about to ask who they're meant to give the order to when he notices the glass of ice water to the side of his hand that _hadn't_ been there a second ago. Magic: that's the best explanation.

“What's clapassade?” He asks, just to make _some_ conversation.

“It's disgusting.” Lucius answers, and Harry can't help but laugh. “It's lamp ragout. It pits two tastes against each other: anise, and honey. It's common in Montpellier.”

“Are you French?” He has to ask. He's  _curious_ , wants to know more about Lucius in all truth, and when the other man replies he does it without looking up from the booklet clasped in his hands.

“I was born in Clapham.”

“But the Malfoys are French?”

“As are the Blacks.”

“Were.” Lucius glances up from from the menu clasped in his hands, regarding Harry for a moment or two. Harry thinks of Sirius, thinks of his _delight_ at being the last potential propagator of the Black family line, and Lucius seems to think of the same. Harry doesn't think he's imagining the slight _panic_ in Malfoy's eyes. Harry can't help but wonder if he usually puts the Department of Mysteries from his mind - Harry does, himself. 

“Were.” The older man agrees cautiously. “Do you know what you want?” Harry shakes his head, unsure what to say, and then he thinks of how Lucius had shown up in his office and just set things in _front_ of him.

“No. Pick for me.” Lucius winces; something _electric_ shoots from Harry's wrists up his arms, something that makes his skin tingle and his body _lurch_ , and he heaves in a gasp, shifting in his seat.

“What the- what was that?” It bloody  _hurt_.

“You gave me an imperative.” Lucius murmurs. “Here, I give the orders.”

“This _place_ \- what, it understands…?” Harry's curiosity is piqued, his interest suddenly set to a slight flame, and he leans forwards, regarding Lucius with _fascination_. These days, really, he's more fascinated by new magic than he ever was in school.

“It regulates. It pushes you into your role, and me into mine. There used to be a shrine here. To Eros or Dionysus or Hedone, I don't recall – one of the Greek pleasure Gods.”

“What happens if I disrespect you?” Lucius' grey eyes meet Harry's, and the jolt comes again, _shooting_ through him, and Harry flinches in his place. “What happens if I disrespect you-- _sir_?” Lucius' pale lips twist into a grimly entertained expression.

“I believe that answered your question, did it not, Mr Potter?”

“I like this.” Harry says, and he's not certain why, but he _does_. It fills him with a sense of bizarre and paradoxical security, that there are real _rules_ in place.

“Do you?” Lucius asks: Harry guesses it's rhetorical. “Is there anything you _don't_ like?”

“Roasts.” Harry says quietly, thinking of the dozens of times he'd been left to roast a joint, a chicken, a turkey or whatever for the Dursleys. The way his aunt had insisted he cook it, it had always ended up _dry_ , tasteless: it somewhat puts him off.

“You'll have the ratatouille. To start, baked feta with warmed bread. Do you want dessert?”

“You decide.” Harry is expecting the jolt this time, and he lets out a sharp noise, squirming in his place; his cock gives a twitch beneath his robes.

“You are _incorrigible_.” Lucius says disapprovingly. “You'll have the profiteroles.”

“What are you going to have?” Harry asks softly.

“Cheese soufflé to start, with comté, followed by bourguignon.”

“What about dessert?”

“I won't need to order any.” Lucius murmurs.

“What? Why not? _Agh_ -” Harry grasps tightly at the edge of the table, because this time the lightning bolt seems to rush from the soles of his feet right to his _skull_ , where it reverberates inside the **bone** , or so it feels like.

“Did it hurt that time?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Are you hard?” Harry is a little surprised at that, at Lucius being so _frank_ about the question, but none of the other tables seem affected. He wonders if they can even hear.

“A little. I don't understand.”

“When you're aroused, you blush, and your cock becomes hard.” Lucius says in such a humourless tone Harry almost doesn't realize he's being  _mocking_.

“Ha.” Harry says sarcastically. “I don't understand _this_. I'm not saying sir at the end of every sentence, but what, the magic tells when I'm being rude?”

“No. It tells when _I_ think you're being rude.”

“You're a pillock. _Yagh_.” This time it lingers, burning through his skin, and the pain prickles at his cock; he feels his balls draw up, the tingling passing over the skin there as well, and-

“Don't you _dare_ orgasm without my explicit permission.” Lucius' voice cuts through the tense air between them, and Harry chokes on a moan, simply because it's like his cock has suddenly been drenched in ice water.

“ _Lucius_ -”

“Are you learning?”

“Yes, yes, _sir_ , God, Lucius, can you make it-” His expression is sadistic as he looks at Harry, but then it fades just a little, and at least he's at the right _temperature_ between his legs. “Thank you.”

“That's a good lad.” Lucius murmurs, and Harry is about to respond when he's distracted by the scent of cheese, and he looks down. It's a clay bowl, and atop a layer of pepper pieces, tomato and cucumber is a square of white cheese scattered with oregano, a plate of bread beside the bowl. Harry reaches, picks at the bread and breaks it into pieces, taking one and presses it against the heated cheese, watching it crumble and press to the crust.

He takes a bite from it, then, and the salt of it is good on his tongue.

“C'est simple, mais c'est bon, ouais?” Lucius says, and then, “Translate what I just said to you.”

Harry hesitates, and then says, “I don't speak French,” but no jolt comes to punish him. He can't help but wonder the  _point_ of this, if it's just Lucius playing  _games_ with him. But then, isn't that the point of this, them together? Playing games?

“You can work it out. Contrary to all evidence, Mr Potter, I am well aware that you are _not_ an idiot.”

“It's simple,” Harry starts, and Lucius nods his head. “And it's good?”

“No.”

“ _But_ it's good.” Lucius smiles at him, and for some reason it makes Harry feel suddenly _warm_. “Yes? No. That's oui. Uh, like yeah? Like that.”

“Exactement. Bravo.”

“Thanks.” Harry says awkwardly, and he begins to eat, watching the older man as he eats with a sort of _primness_ Harry had more than expected. He eats meticulously, after all; Lucius, it would seem, has been carefully trained to be _meticulous_. It's something he's learning to be, these days, with his work, though he doesn't imagine he'll ever be like _Malfoy_. “What's the point of this place? I get what it does, but why?”

“It strengthens the bond.”

“Between dominant and submissive?”

“What makes you think that?” God, it's going to annoy Harry if Lucius keeps on trying to  _teach_ him. 

“It's punishing me. And rewarding me.” 

“And?” Lucius is looking at him expectantly, as if it's _normal_ to make someone's partner figure out complicated questions over lunch.

“And we're dominant and submissive.”

“Look around you, Mr Potter. Is everyone here the same?” Harry glances at the others he can see; two women together, hands clasped together on the table; a man and two women laughing over a shared plate; a man and a woman looking into each other's eyes.

“No. It's not about dominance. Does the magic strengthen _any_ bond?”

“No.”

“It strengthens sexual ones, sexual and romantic ones.” The warm feeling floods through him again, heated and pleasant, and Harry lets out a soft, pleased sigh. “I like this.” He says again.

“That may change once it's no longer easy.”

“Why wouldn't it be easy?”

“You shall see.” Harry frowns at Lucius, but then continues to eat, expression quietly thoughtful.

“Why does it feel good? The punishment?”

“Why did a stiff hand to your backside make you so pleased and wobbly I had to carry you to bed?” Harry bites his lip, worries the skin under his teeth, and feels his cheeks go slightly hot.

“It'll reach a threshold, though?”

“Clever _boy_.”

“Why are you such an _ar-_ ” Harry stops short, thinking it through. Lucius' expression is deceptively neutral. “You're condescending.”

“Because you like it.”

“Did Percy like it?” Lucius blinks at Harry.

“Percy? Who is Percy?”

“Percy Weasley.” Lucius furrows his brow slightly.

“Arthur Weasley's eldest boy?” His mouth _twists_ around Mr Weasley's name, sharp about it, but Harry honestly has no time to complain about their apparently long-running mutual hatred.

“Third eldest. Eldest to work at the ministry, though.”

“If you say so.”

“You've never had sex with him?”

“With a _Weasley_?” Lucius bites out, evidently somewhat offended. “ **No.** ”

“Oh.”

“Why _ever_ would you think I had?”

“It was just- something he said, but I just _assumed_ -”

“Assumptions, Mr Potter, are not something I would routinely recommend.”

“Thanks for the advice, _sir_.” Harry retorts, and he leans back, looking up at the chandeliered ceiling for a moment. When he looks back, his mostly eaten bowl of feta is gone, and instead is a bowl of vegetables in some sort of red sauce; he breathes in, taking in the scent. “Ratatouille.”

“Mmm. _Eat_.” They eat their main courses in silence, and Harry enjoys the meal well enough, though it's not _exciting_ , he supposes, but excitement hadn't been what he'd wanted. It's a little later that the dessert appears, a dish of profiteroles in cream and a sweet-scented caramel sauce, and Lucius is smirking at him.

“Eat. Finish, and I'll take you back.” It's said with a sort of significance to it Harry doesn't quite comprehend, and Harry puts a fork into one of the profiteroles, bringing it to his mouth and chewing. It's sweet, _too_ sweet, the cream and caramel positively _sickly_ , but he continues, eating two, and then three, and then four-

Lucius is watching him, fingers steepled in front of his lips, expression calculating. “What is it about this that you find so interesting? I'm _just_ eating.”

“Look at your bowl.” Harry does, and he realizes it doesn't seem to have changed at all: it's the same pile of sweet pieces of pastry that had been there when the dish had first appeared.

“It's full.”

“It is.” Harry stares at it, feels the sickly taste dominating his mouth and making it _dry_.

“Is this a puzzle?” Harry asks and Lucius gives a slight shrug of his graceful shoulders – how does someone even _have_ graceful shoulders? He looks from the profiteroles to Lucius, and then he stands, moving around the table. Lucius leans back in his seat, expression surprised, and Harry settles on his knee. “It's about reinforcing roles, right? You being in control, me following orders.”

One of his hands steadies itself on Lucius' shoulder, and he tries to ignore the burning _embarrassment_ at being on Lucius' lap in public, but he's certain that in a place like this, it's _different_.

“You're not incorrect.” Lucius murmurs.

“So- um- _please_ ,” Harry flushes, because even though he might not like the dessert itself, the concept is not so horrible. “Please will you feed me? Sir.” Lucius stares at him; there's a sort of dim surprise on his face, slightly muted by his tendency to keep his expression neutral. 

“Do you like the profiteroles, Mr Potter? Answer me honestly.”

“No. They're too sweet.”

“Do you want to eat more of them?”

“Not really, but if it's a test-” The bowl disappears as Harry looks at it, and one of Lucius' hands settles upon Harry's hip.

“The _test_ , Mr Potter, is my own. The restaurant merely provides a focus for it.”

“But we didn't-”

“You passed, Mr Potter, with _flying_ colours.”

“Just by figuring it out?” Harry asks, expression sceptical.

“Oh, no. Just by being so _terribly_ willing to fulfil your selected _role._ ”

\---

“Thank you.” Harry murmurs as he drops into his own office once more, and Lucius regards him with a slight affection on his face, and he begins to walk toward the door. “Why me?” Harry asks before Lucius reaches it, and Lucius smirks.

“Pardon?”

“Why me? What is it, that I killed Voldemort?”

“You think you murdered him.” Lucius says cleanly, even though it's not an answer and _not_ something he really wants to hear, and Harry is stopped short, mouth open. “It shows, to one who knows what to look for, you know. You feel _guilty_. He had murdered so many people, and yet you still felt guilty.”

“He was still a man.” Harry says in a soft, almost-whisper. He's never discussed that _particular_ guilt, not with Ron, not with Hermione, not with _anyone_. “Murder is-”

“It was not murder.” Lucius interrupts him cleanly, voice cutting. “It was self-defence, and defence of _others_. Thousands of others, myself, my son and Narcissa included. But no, Mr Potter, to answer your question, that is _not_ why – though it lends some assistance. You are in the public eye and you are a man, and thus if our relationship was revealed to the press, you and I would each be _equally_ harmed. You moreso, in fact.”

“Plus you're a sadist, and I'm a masochist.” Lucius nods his head in a neat, subtle movement. “And you're what I need.”

“ _Am_ I?”

“You're older. Educative. Cold.”

“You're younger, malleable, and you're a disturbingly charming _irritant_ of a creature.”

“Thank you.” Harry says, and Lucius regards him for a moment or two.

“You are _welcome_ , Mr Potter. If it helps- you're also pretty.”

“Not as pretty as you are,” Lucius smirks, and then Harry adds, “for a peacock.” The smile freezes, and is replaced with an abrupt expression of _affront_.

“Rude.”

“You like it.”

“Oh, yes.” Lucius agrees, and he grasps for the doorknob. “It would seem I do.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Six months.

Six months it's been now, six months of having little lunches, of Lucius coming to Harry's flat and them not having sex, and it's weird, he supposes. Weird that they go to parties together, that they spend so much time together, and Lucius hasn't fucked him yet.

He's not sure how he feels about it, not really – Lucius will hurt him, throw him around, make sure he comes, but Harry still hasn't seen him without his shirt on, let alone naked. They still spend time together though, and Harry can't help but want more.

Although now he's late for dinner at the Weasleys.

“Hey, Hermione,” Harry says as he enters the Burrow, shrugging off his travelling cloak, and she grins at him, though she glances at his clothes with a slightly surprised expression. The Weasleys, after all, tend towards wearing Muggle clothes under light robes, and in the house itself it's often trousers and jumpers; Hermione, of course, tends to Muggle wear herself.

It's bizarre, Harry thinks, how different the clothes from one world are to another, how just wearing a pair of trousers has someone labelled a blood traitor. But Harry isn't wearing trousers this evening: his robes are red with golden flowers embroidered at the base of them, curling upwards and shifting slightly in the firelight from the hearth.

“Oh. Those- those are nice, Harry.”

“Blimey,” Ron says from just behind her, staring at them, and Harry shifts slightly, flushing red enough to match them. “Are they dress robes?”

“I was just- I lost track of the time, I was at this thing – just give me a minute, I'll go change.”

“Oh, wow!” Ginny says as she enters, and George wolf-whistles beside her, grinning at Harry as he does his best to go past, but he grabs the younger man by the shoulders, pulling him back and spinning him around.

“Mum! Harry's dressed up for us!”

“No, I haven't- George, let me go change-”

“Oh, Harry, dear, those are nice-”

“Molly, please tell your son to let me g-”

“They are rather splendid.”

“George, let him go,” Percy says, and he cuts through the teasing, gesturing for Harry to go past him to the bathroom, and Harry moves quickly, rushing up the stairs. With his bag to hand, he quite quickly rushes to pull off his dress robes, neatly folding them and putting them into his satchel to swap for just jeans, a shirt and a jumper.

And then he swears, because the mirror says in a faux-helpful tone thick with an Irish accent, “You're not going to do something about that lurid mark on your neck, m'boy?” The robes have a high Chinese collar, a gold under-robe underneath the main red piece, but now with the shirt's round collar his neck is on show. Even if the mirror is being somewhat rude about it, the red bite on his skin is both lewd and obvious. He grasps at his wand and mutters a quick concealment charm, and then he says, “Is there anything else?”, turning around.

“Your shamelessness is less visible now, child.” Harry rolls his eyes, but all the same he grabs at his bag again and walks downstairs, moving to throw it aside and settle at the table between Percy and Hermione.

“Where were you, dressed like that?” Percy asks, with a slight significance to the tone that Hermione seems to pick up on but doesn't ask about.

“I was invited to this party,” Harry murmurs, and under the table he kicks Percy in the shin. “It wasn't anything exciting – just a little house party.”

“Where?” Hermione asks. “Do you- do you go to house parties?” Harry considers the way Lucius had slammed him against the wall in the corridor, bitten at his neck as he'd lifted him halfway up the wall, and a trio of half-vampires had each tittered and made some lewd comment in French Harry hadn't completely understood.

“Well, I went to this one. It wasn't here, it was in Marseille. I got distracted, that's why I was late.”

“Who distracted you?” asks George immediately, with a brilliant, vulgar smile on his face, and Harry laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Une petite femme avec une grande derri-”

“Harry!” Hermione says, and he laughs as she smacks him in the shoulder, and George laughs too, though the others are looking at them blankly.

“Since when do you speak French, mate?” Ron asks as Molly and Arthur bring in plates from the kitchen, setting them all around the table, and Harry shrugs a little, not really wanting to answer “since I started studying when Lucius Malfoy took me to a sex restaurant in Lyon”.

“I'm only picking a little up. There're a lot of defence books written in French,” Harry answers, and he begins to eat with the others, settling into some conversation that's easier; Percy's work, George's shop, a particularly hard case Ron's had this week, Hermione's new temp, Ginny's new broom-

A lot of things.

“How about you, Harry?” Arthur asks with a raise of his eyebrows that's playful and affectionate; he's fatherly towards Harry, always has been. Harry feels a lurch of guilt at having a relationship with a man that's effectively Arthur's nemesis. “What's new with you?”

“Yes, Harry,” Percy says, and he looks at Harry in such a way that Harry considers throwing his dessert into the other man's lap, “what _is_ new with you?”

“Nothing much. Just getting on with work, going out a bit.”

“No girls in your life?”

“Nah, not really, Arthur. Romance isn't on my mind at the moment.”

\---

“Just drop it, Percy, would you?” Harry says as he and Percy leave to Apparate to their respective homes, and the older man tuts at him.

“I tried to give you advice, Harry-” And Percy is using the pompous tone he usually does when he's trying to affect himself as making the right decisions – that officious nature has come to be sort of endearing over the years, but only when it doesn't involve Harry's life.

“Advice you lied about – he's never gone anywhere near you! He doesn't even know which brother you are!”

“That doesn't make my input any less valuable!” Harry huffs out a noise.

“It's not like I'm marrying the bloke.”

“No, you're not. Because he's already married.”

“Oh, Percy-”

“Which is the least of your worries. He's a sadist, Harry, he's not going to keep on being gentle with you forever, he'll-”

“Has it occurred to you, Perce, that I like being hurt as much as you like getting bossed around?” Percy stares down at him, looking horrified, but even as he does a flush creeps over his cheeks. His freckles connect under the sudden bloom of red, and his lips quiver before he gives a response.

“I don't enjoy-”

“Weatherby,” Harry says bluntly, and Percy shifts, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. Harry can't help but be embarrassed, but he doesn't need Percy trying to tell him what to do, especially not with his relationships. “Look, really, I'm fine. He's fine. He doesn't hurt me properly.”

“Not yet,” Percy says, and Harry groans. “Harry, I'm just looking out for you. You're like a brother to me.”

“You're like a brother to me. And that's why I feel so comfortable telling you now that you're being too overprotective,” Harry speaks firmly and Percy lets out a short and quiet sigh of a noise, regarding him with some displeasure evident on his freckled features. “Percy, really, I'm alright. If I wasn't interested, I wouldn't have him.”

Percy hums for a moment, lips still pressed together, and then he reluctantly bows his head for a moment before stepping back to spin on his feet. Harry Apparates himself, and even as he arrives on the stairs of his flat building his feet are already moving; he moves up the stairs quickly, bag shouldered.

Lucius is waiting for him when he enters the apartment, outer robe unfastened to his mid-chest and putting the underpiece on show. He's still wearing his dress robes – silver underneath, green over top. Both of their robes were intended to be complementary, after all.

“Oh, dear.” Lucius speaks cleanly, giving Harry's Muggle clothes a disapproving once over. “What unimpressive attire.”

“I wasn't going to sit there wearing dress robes at a family dinner, Lucius.”

“Why not? You looked rather fetching in them.”

“Fetching,” Harry repeats mockingly, and Lucius raises one silver eyebrow, gesturing for Harry to come towards him with a come-hither motion of two fingers. He'd transfigured the uncomfortable wooden chair at Harry's desk into a high-backed armchair not dissimilar to the one he has in his bedroom, but of a soft brown colour rather than the green.

Harry does, dropping his bag aside as he moves forwards and he stands between Lucius' knees, reaching forwards and beginning, with easy movements of his fingers, to undo the fastenings of Lucius' robes. He's confident in their interactions now – he's not nervous as he was at the beginning of their little relationship, not worried.

He can't help but wonder if that's actually a bad thing, but Lucius cuts those thoughts off when his hands wrap around Harry's legs and pull him closer, hands squeezing his thighs through the fabric.

“Jeans,” Lucius grumbles as he thumbs over the denim fabric, and Harry laughs at his tone of personal offence, unable not to.

“I could get you a pair.”

“I'd sooner traverse Diagon Alley naked before I stooped to such a garment.”

“I wouldn't mind watching that. They'd make your arse look good, you know.” Lucius hums, reaching with one hand to grasp neatly at Harry's jaw, forcing him to meet Lucius' eye. Harry likes looking at Lucius' eyes, he must admit – they're cold, a grey colour like ice in the dark, but they're somehow beautiful. Lucius Malfoy is beautiful, really, and not in a pretty way or an artistic way: he's aristocratically beautiful but still dangerous, like a figure carved of the sharpest metal.

Harry hesitates for just a moment or two, letting his fingers trace up the line of Lucius' sternum now that his under-robe is open properly, up to his neck. Lucius lets him, expression remaining impassive, even though Harry can tell he's not comfortable; it's obvious enough from the scars Harry can feel under his fingers, even though he can't see them.

Harry guesses Lucius' smooth and perfectly unmarred skin is evidence of a glamour as opposed to never having been harmed.

He hesitates for a moment more, and then says, very quietly, “Will you have sex with me tonight?” Lucius watches him, and then the hand curled around Harry's throat slips to the hand of Harry's that's still wandering, clasping it to his own upper chest. It took a lot of effort to make the request – Lucius has assured him he is to ask for what he wants a few times here and there, but he's still not quite certain as to how to go about it.

“Took you some time to ask,” Lucius murmurs in something of a purr, and then comes the crucial addition: “Mr Potter.”

Harry grins at him. “Be-” He stops, his smile fading.

“Be?”

“Be rough,” Harry says with the necessary prompting, voice slightly hoarse for the sake of embarrassment.

“Oh, Mr Potter,” Lucius says in such a low and scandalized tone Harry forgets how to breathe for a moment – what is it about this that's so exciting? And then he grabs Harry by the shirt front and pulls him abruptly down to his own level, making him let out a sharp noise as they're suddenly put face to face. “I believe I've told you about giving me imperatives.”

“Please,” Harry whispers, and Lucius grins at him, baring white teeth.

“That's better.” Lucius releases his collar, and then he gives the order Harry has been waiting for. “To the bedroom. Clothes off, on your back, legs spread.”

“I'll take my clothes off and lie like I want.” Lucius smacks him across the face, so hard that Harry heaves in a breath and closes his eyes as he keeps his head turned, feeling the sharp and infuriatingly painful burn across his cheek. He opens his eyes to look at Lucius, who is watching him with a careful and concentrated care, lips pursed.

“Did you like that?” Harry can't decide which he likes most in Lucius' voice – the accusation or the delight.

“I'd smack you back if I didn't,” Harry assures him, and Lucius hums.

“So you ought. Off you go, then.” Lucius pats his thigh, and Harry does, and once he's undressed he can't help but let his fingers touch over the ghost of heated, momentary agony still clinging to his face.

God, he wants Lucius to do that again.

“You're not on your back,” Lucius says sharply as he enters, to see Harry still stood at the foot of his bed, touching his own face with a quiet curiosity.

“You didn't set a time limit.”

“I didn't believe I needed to.” He feels Lucius step up behind him rather than hears his shoes on the wood floor; he's barefoot. Lucius' hand touches against Harry's hip, then, and Harry feels the heat of his chest against his back, with no fabric between their skin. “Was I wrong?”

“Maybe.” Lucius leans, pressing his mouth against the other's neck, pressing a kiss to the flesh, and then he draws his mouth up to the other's ear.

“If you want to be had tonight, Mr Potter, I recommend you attempt some obedience.”

“Why don't you teach- agh-” Lucius' hand lands hard on his arse, so hard that his knees buckle and he would have fallen if the older man hadn't grabbed him by the hips and thrown him back onto the bed. Harry stares up at him, feeling terror flood through him as Lucius moves forwards, and for once he sees Lucius without his glamour – tattoos are on his neck and wrist and hip and ankle from Azkaban, scars on his chest and thighs, a shiny burn that draws all the way from his elbow to his shoulder – but he can't quite focus on his body when Lucius has a snarl on his regal features.

Harry stares at him with wide eyes as he stands between his thighs, and Lucius is silent as he flicks his wand, tying Harry's hands above his head and to the headboard. Harry whimpers, and Lucius grins at him; the terror stills in his veins, and then heats, and suddenly Harry's skin is sensitized all over and he's harder than ever.

“Are you alright, Potter? With bondage?” Harry hesitates. “Harry.” comes the warning prompt.

“I like it,” Harry says shortly, and firmly, and for a moment the snarl fades (it's an act, of course it is, because Lucius is a good actor when he feels like being one) into a furrowed brow and a slightly concerned expression, Lucius' eyes narrowing.

“If at any time-”

“Say snitch. Yeah, I know.” Lucius hums shortly, but then he continues on, hands stroking up and over Harry's thighs as he leans down slightly, regarding him with a sense of hunger evident on his face. “I thought you wanted me on my belly?”

“On your back I can do this.” And then Lucius slaps him across the face again, and Harry lets out a loud and whining keen, gasping as he shakes under the burning pain at his cheek. “And this, of course.” Lucius is smirking down at him as he wraps his other hand around Harry's cock, and he flicks his wrist as he jacks him up and down, keeping that icy gaze intent on Harry's face.

“You were gonna have me on my belly so I couldn't see your scars.”

“Mr Potter, if you want me to smack you again, you can ask.” Harry feels a sudden spark of embarrassment heat his cheeks – it's one thing to know he likes it, but it's another to ask for it. Isn't it sort of meant to be a punishment? “You needn't look so shocked, lad. If you didn't enjoy it when I hurt you, I'd not have you.”

“Who says you have me?” Lucius laughs, and gestures with a graceful flair of white piano player's fingers to Harry's own wrists, where they're bound tight above his head. Harry's cock gives a twitch against his belly, thoroughly betraying him: he can't help but love it when Lucius laughs at him, can't help but squirm at it. “Well, you've not had me yet.” He phrases it as a complaint, and Lucius hums, thoughtful, but then he presses a finger that's suddenly slick against Harry's arse, and he heaves in a breath, closing his eyes tightly and arching his back slightly, feeling the rope pull hard at his wrists. He presses two digits forwards, and his expression silently searches Harry's face, his lips twitching.

It's good. Harry spreads his legs further, tilts up his hips, and then bites out, firmly, “I'm not a virgin, Lucius.”

“No, you're a brazen whore.” Harry lets out a caught noise. “You do like it when I insult you, don't you?” Lucius purrs, evidently delighted, and he twists them; Harry lets out a sigh, and he drops his head back, feeling that wonderful sensation of being _filled_. He doesn't open his eyes again until Lucius is done prepping him and the older man is warm between his thighs, lining himself up as he pushes Harry's knees up against his chest: Harry lets out a short noise of discomfort at the position, trying to shift, but then Lucius thrusts home and he just groans. “You are positively pornographic.”

“I didn't know wizards had porn,” Harry says honestly, and Lucius is left laughing despite himself, silver hair hiding his face as he drops his head down. He's beautiful with a grin on his face like that: Harry never saw him honestly laugh before he met him in the Ministry a few months ago, only ever saw a prim or sarcastic little smirk, but the way he laughs now is airy and light, and it's so deceptively _normal_. Well, maybe not entirely audible: he is bent over Harry with his cock in the younger man's arse.

“I'm fucking a dunce.” Harry likes the way fuck sounds in Lucius' mouth, the “f” sound prissy and soft, the “k” drawn out and loud: it makes him shiver, and he feels himself twitch around Lucius, drawing out a soft, barely audible noise as he tosses his hair back again.

“I'm not a dunce,” he says firmly, no matter how pleasant insults sounds on Lucius Malfoy's tongue.

“You are a dunce, Mr Potter, with a fetish for authority.” Lucius leans, until his perfect, regal mouth is barely an inch from Harry's, and he can smell lavender breath mints and the lingering scent of the other man's cologne on his neck. “Luckily for you, I am an authoritarian with a fetish for pretty little men like yourself.” Harry almost gasps as Lucius rolls his hips abruptly forwards, and his thighs ache for the position he's in, his arms giving similar twinges, but his cock is harder than ever between their bellies, and it's beginning to get wet at the tip.

“Sir-” Harry begs, tone plaintive, and Lucius lets out a breathy little chuckle before beginning to move. Lucius' fingers are tight on the meat of Harry's thighs as he begins to thrust his hips, and he drives deep but, infuriatingly, the position makes it so he only glances over Harry's prostate. The fullness is nice, the fucking is good, but Harry wants-

It becomes evident, after a few minutes of this, with the smirk on Lucius' face and the way his smirk widens when Harry tries to wriggle, that this denial is on purpose.

“Sir, don't-”

“Don't?” Lucius stops abruptly, still, and Harry lets out a wail. He can feel it coiling slowly in his stomach, the need to come, the need for more stimulation, and now that the other man isn't moving what little has built up is swiftly dissipating.

“No, no, sir, please, don't be a twat, come on-” Lucius thrusts deeply, adjusting his angle and filling Harry so entirely he groans. “No, Lucius, don't, don't- please, just fuck me properly, fuck-”

“Aren't I fucking you properly, Potter?” Lucius asks, amused, and if Harry could move his hands, he'd slap him.

“It's not- it's not funny, please-” Lucius drops one of his thighs and wraps his hand around Harry's cock instead, and Harry arches with a desperate keen of noise. But God, why did he ever expect mercy of a man like Lucius Malfoy?

Lucius keeps going, occasionally twisting his hand, but it's still slow, still a tiny incremental build of pleasure, and just as Harry's on the very cusp, on the edge, Lucius comes, and he groans, still. “Luc-” He pulls out, and Harry cries despite himself, trying to kick at him and gasping thickly when Lucius catches his leg and stops him short.

“Now now, you needn't be such a brat.”

“Lucius-”

“Hush.” As Lucius reaches over him to undo the ties at his wrists, Harry lets out a soft noise, and it's when Lucius drags one finger up the raphe of his cock, and then doesn't touch it properly that he breaks: Harry is sobbing, body more tense than it's ever been, and Lucius coos at him, perfectly cruel as he continues to touch and tease at his cock. “Beg.” Lucius speaks in a soft, intimate whisper, and Harry can't help but cry.

“Please, please, please, Lucius, sir, please, just let me- let me come, God, it's not fair, you can't- you can-” Luicus' hand is around his prick, then, moving fast, and Harry gasps in desperate breaths as he finally comes, shuddering as his orgasm hits him hard. Everything is white and all of his limbs are heavy and strange, and when he comes down to earth he realizes he's giggling a little, and that Lucius is looking down at him with amusement.

“There,” Lucius murmurs, and he presses a handkerchief to Harry's hand, watching him as he wipes at his wet face and blows his nose, coughing a little. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, that was- I mean, I liked-” Harry nods, trailing off and not bothering to try finishing the sentence, and Lucius gives a neat nod of his head. Lucius' fingers trail patterns on Harry's knee, and then he sits back slightly, gesturing for Harry to follow him.

Harry does, and then he stumbles, knees weak like jelly, and Lucius laughs, catching him by the hips and pulling him up. He presses conjured pyjamas into his arms, and as Harry (with some effort) pulls them on, he puts on similar ones: Lucius is staying tonight, then. Harry is glad of the thought, really – it'll be nice.

“You should have some tea.”

“Cook for me,” Harry demands, and he doesn't know why he does it, but it comes from his mouth all the same: Lucius looks at him, and the little, self-satisfied smile remains on his face even as Harry receives a reprimand.

“Brat.”

“I'll be a spoilt brat if you cook for me.”

“Very true,” comes his easy agreement, and on slightly shaky feet Harry follows him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Lucius breaks eggs into a jug and whisks them. He does it deftly, with an ease of technique – he flicks on the hob, affects peppers and bacon from the fridge to chop themselves, and continues to whisk the egg, adding in lemon, garlic and milk.

“I didn't know you could cook.” It's not like he's doing anything difficult, but he's certainly not shy about being in the kitchen.

“My grandmother was a chef,” Lucius says easily, and Harry stares at his green-silk clad back.

“She had a _job_? Scandalous,” Harry says, because he doesn't know what else to say. It's strange to be told such normal things about Lucius' family and his life. Pure-bloods are a mystery to Harry, really – he's done his best to talk to different people, but he mostly talks to people like him, or Hermione, or the Weasleys.

“My father thought so,” Lucius agrees, and Harry listens to the sizzle of the bacon as he drops it into the pan. “My maternal grandmother – _ma grand-maman_.” French comes easily from Malfoy's tongue, as easily as it does English: each word flows. “My mother died of a blood condition when I was born, but I spent a lot of time with my maternal grandparents.”

Harry can't see his face, but he can see the stiffness in the older man's back.

“Your father didn't like that, then? He seemed a bit of a twat to me,” Lucius turns, arching a brow.

“My father died when you were about nine, Potter,” he says, suspicion evident on his features.

“I saw him in a memory. One of Slughorn's, of Voldemort.” Lucius winces, but Harry doesn't apologize. He never apologizes for that. “You look like him.”

“I do,” Lucius assents, and he doesn't sound too pleased about it. Harry wants to ask a dozen questions, wants to ask if Lucius looks like his mother, what his mother was like, how his parents ended up together.

“How did he die?”

“Dragon pox,” Lucius answers simply, with a sort of quiet satisfaction that Harry can't put his finger on. He's not entirely sure if he wants to ask, either, but Lucius closes the silence and says, “I had a party when my father died.” Harry blinks.

“You had a party?”

“He was a horrid old bugger. I was glad to be rid of him – glad Draco was rid of him.” Harry lets out a sort of shocked laugh, partly at the sentiment and partly at hearing Lucius use the word “bugger”, and Lucius offers him a wry smile. “Surprised?”

“More and more as you keep talking.”

“I shall endeavour to keep talking, then.”

“You'd better.” Lucius pours the egg into the pan, and Harry leans against the other counter, elbows by the chopping board. With that, he listens more carefully, as Lucius begins to speak again: “She was a short woman, my grand-maman – just a little taller than you, and she had hair like mine, long and silver, but she kept it in a bun above her head, very tightly.” Harry watches the way muscles twitch in the older man's jaw; he doesn't like sharing things, Harry knows. It's uncomfortable, creates unnecessary vulnerabilities.

“I saw my grandparents when I was eleven,” Harry says, and he almost smiles, thinking of the Mirror of Erised. “There was a mirror, an enchanted mirror at school – the Mirror of Erised – and I found it one night, and I stood in front of it. And I saw my parents, but not just my parents – my mum's mum and dad, and my dad's mum and dad, and all these aunts and uncles and cousins- not Dudley, of course. Thankfully. But all this family.”

“The mirror showed you the past, then?” Lucius asks quietly as he pours the peppers into the pan, and Harry shakes his hand. His grey eyes are alert and analytical as he glances at Harry, and it's strange to Harry how _pleasant_ it is to be listened to by Lucius Malfoy. The Weasleys and Hermione listen to him, of course, and so do his friends, but most people just seem to glaze over when Harry talks, no matter what he's saying. Especially politicians.

“What you most desired. What you wanted more than anything else in the world.” He watches as Lucius scrambles the eggs, spatula swift as it scrapes and shifts them around.

“You wanted family.”

“I'm an orphan. All I've got is my aunt, uncle and my cousin, and I don't talk to them now I don't have to,” Harry says lightly, and Lucius' expression is momentarily caught.

“These are the Muggles?” he asks, tone slightly affected. Harry is aware that he must have put some fuel on Lucius' Muggle-hating fire.

“You don't need to say it with such disgust, Lucius,” Harry says dryly, and Lucius' cheeks turn ever so slightly pink.

“Why not talk to them?”

“Tell me about your father first.” Harry retorts, and Lucius makes a grumbling sound, catching the pan off the heat and pouring the contents into two bowls. He doesn't seem too annoyed, though, and as he takes two forks from the drawer to the side of the sink, he becomes quieter, more pensive.

“He was an imposing man. Very strict: very focused on etiquette and propriety. He believed that the display of outward emotion was improper for men of standing, and I was forbidden to smile in public until I was fifteen,” Lucius speaks utterly seriously, but Harry can't believe it.

“You're joking!”

“I am not.” They return to the bedroom, and Lucius settles on the edge of his chair as Harry curls in his own: Lucius' matching armchair had been added after a few weeks of their little trysts, as he often complained about lacking somewhere to sit. “No smiling at public events and parties; no smiling, no laughing, no anger, nothing. I was to remain impassive as a stone.”

“What happened if you did?” Harry asks, and he can't help but wonder if this is why all the Pure-bloods left seem like they're made of marble. Did his dad get taught that stuff? Did Sirius?

“Oh, some manner of torture. I was rarely beaten – usually I was punished with some spell or other. And your aunt and uncle?” It's not a common tit for tat, Harry guesses, but Lucius is talking to him, and he's listening too.

“My uncle never hit me. Choked me, sometimes, grabbed me around the throat and squeezed, threw me around a lot, but he never hit me – he thought he was a saint for that. Aunt Petunia did, though – she'd do it with a frying pan or something, sometimes while it was still hot, so I learned to duck. Bludgers were nothing compared to that.” It's strange, speaking like this – Harry's never told this to _anyone_ , not even Ron and Hermione, and it's bizarrely cathartic. There's a pause, drawn-out, and then Harry says, in a very quiet voice, “I slept in a cupboard under the stairs 'til I was eleven, 'til my Hogwarts letter came.”

Lucius' expression is unreadable, but he stares at Harry's own face without glancing away, without so much as blinking.

“And not, like, enchanted, but an actual cupboard under the stairs. There were a lot of spiders, and it was really dusty, and sometimes they'd keep me in there for days on end, only open the door to let me go to the toilet and to eat. It wasn't better when I got the spare bedroom, though – one year they put bars on my windows, and another they put a cat flap in my door so that Petunia didn't have to look at me. She just put cold soup through the hole.”

“In the event of their deaths,” Lucius says quietly, in a tone that is calm but quavering with something underneath, “I would be quite pleased to assist you in celebrating them.”

“No.” Harry says, shaking his head. “I wouldn't do that.”

“Why ever not?” Lucius asks, sounding about as furious as he knows Hermione would be if he told her the whole story, or how Ron, Ginny and George would be if he explained it all. Not that he wants to: he's known them all a long time, and he doesn't really want any pity from them.

“Because I'm not- I'm not like you. I don't hate them, I'm not still angry at them. I've forgiven them.” Lucius scoffs.

“You can't have forgiven them.”

“I have. What they did, it was in the past, that's done with.” Lucius tuts, shaking his head: his hair shifts in the light.

“This is the same reason you feel _guilt_ over your defeat of the Dark Lord.” It's a sharp accusation, full of Lucius Malfoy's usual disapproval.

“Not even Voldemort,” a part of Harry he's ashamed of is triumphant when Lucius flinches, “deserved to die. Murder is wrong.”

“Murder is sometimes necessary,” Lucius disagrees, “And as we've previously discussed, it _wasn't_ murder.”

“No. Yes! No.” Lucius reaches out, and despite his irritation Harry leans against the other man's hand as two of his knuckles press against his chin, pulling his head up slightly. Lucius studies Harry's face, ice-coloured eyes flickering over his features, and his thumb strokes lightly over the skin of his chin.

“Why ever have you settled with someone who so opposes you so entirely?”

“Do you think we're opposed?”

“You think we are not?”

“We share some things.”

“Such as?”

“Great hair.” Lucius pinches the skin of Harry's throat, and Harry lets out a sharp noise of pain before he laughs, grasping for Lucius' hand and holding it his own; his thumbs play over the broader hand and touch over the soft, uncalloused skin. “Our childhoods. Our personalities, I guess.”

“Really?” Lucius asks sceptically.

“The Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin.” Lucius frowns at him, and suddenly his scepticism is replaced with immediate intrigue. Harry is learning how to press his buttons, and for some reason that idea floods him with a warm sense of satisfaction – he doesn't want to control Lucius, not really, but he appreciates that he can nudge him one way or the other, just with the right words, or the right wording.

“You'd have been an interesting Slytherin. The world would have been distinctly more against you,” Lucius says, and his eyes go slightly glassy as he scans the middle distance. It's not a matter of him not listening to Harry, definitely, it's the opposite – he can see Lucius working it out in his head, who would have reacted this way and that way, how it all would have gone differently.

“Because Slytherins have it hard.” Lucius frowns at him, breaking from his reverie abruptly as if he thinks Harry's being sarcastic, and Harry adds, “No, really, I do think that. I don't like the way the houses are split, it's just-- not right. I was taught to hate all of them just because of their house, but Slytherin's just- I don't know. I wish I'd been friends with your son sometimes,” Harry admits suddenly. “It could have saved- I mean, he wouldn't necessarily have-”

“Your being friends with Draco wouldn't have spared him the Mark,” Lucius says reproachfully, as if Harry's somehow insulted himself for implying it. “I should have sent he and Narcissa elsewhere as soon as I knew he had returned. I did not.”

“Why not?”

“I suppose I believed they would be safer with me. I didn't realize, at the time, how much I had lost favour with him. How much we had all lost favour with him.” Lucius is stiff again, and he draws his hand back from Harry's face, taking small bites of his eggs.

“Did you want favour with him?” Harry asks, uncomfortable with the idea and trying his best not to show it. Lucius' expression is neutral, but his shoulders are squared, and he stays a bit stiff.

“I prefer to have favour with most. I didn't want favour with him especially. The Dark Lord, for many of us, was a means to an end. We weren't loyal soldiers offering ourselves to a general and a cause: we were men with a future in mind, and we believed the Dark Lord would be instrumental in achieving it. There were only a few who truly believed in his ideology, in the world he wished to create.”

“A world where Muggleborns are tortured and killed?” Lucius clucks his tongue at Harry, disapproving.

“No. A world where _Muggleborns_ ,” The word is foreign on Lucius' tongue, obviously not suiting his usual speech, but he knows better than to throw the alternative around Harry's flat. “are safe. That is to say, where they either cannot access their magic, and do not put us at risk, or where they cut off ties with the Muggle world and, again, do not put as at risk.”

“We're not at risk, Lucius.”

“Poppycock.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Listen to me, young man, and respect your elders.”

“You're certainly that.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Lucius growls, and Harry gives him a cheeky grin as he leans back in his seat again, pulling his feet up and under his backside. “What is your ideal in the future? Do you envision a world where the mundane and magical live side-by-side? One of your _high-tech_ cities with centaurs wandering its by-streets, Muggles bartering for charms in the streets as elves wander by on the backs of unicorns?” Harry shakes his head at the thick sarcasm dripping from the older man's tone.

“No, Lucius, I'm not talking about some wet dream for a Muggle fantasy novelist. I actually believe in the Statute of Secrecy, but I think that it's at risk. The whole reason the Statute is a problem is because wizards aren't modern enough, they're not up to date with Muggle technology – how can you possibly hope to hide from Muggles when you don't understand them? You assume you're superior, but you're _not_. Like, for example, do you know what the Internet is? I _know_ you don't know what the Internet is,” Harry continues before Lucius can finish opening his mouth to respond, “Think of a giant book, and that book contains billions of other books, and the book is interactive, so you can basically mention _any_ piece of film or a picture or an article and it'll all come to you after you ask for it. And any Muggle can upload to it. So say a Muggle takes a video of a little girl, a Muggleborn, doing accidental magic, and puts it on there where every Muggle in the world can see it. What then, Lucius?”

“Precisely my argument for containing the magic of Muggleborns. There are _ways_ -”

“Why just Muggleborns? Wizards are obvious when they walk down a London street, Lucius. They don't dress right, and the magic is always just out of sight. It doesn't have to be a wizard at all! _One_ twenty second video of a Hungarian Horntail, Lucius, and the whole bloody cat is out of the bag!” Lucius is smiling at him, for some reason, smiling like someone watching a cat play with a feather – Lucius is smiling at Harry like he's somehow _cute_ , and it's getting on his nerves. “Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop smiling at me!”

“Why should I? I'm rather fond of you,” Lucius says, and then, “There is an obligation for the superior man to care for those beneath him. Offer employment, safety. We are _outnumbered_ by Muggles, Mr Potter, and given the war, there are many suspicious, despite the teams upon teams of Obliviators who have attempted to fix the mess. We need to sever what ties there are.”

“Except that you can't _do_ that, Lucius. Unless you want to get all of the magical peoples together and move us all to the planet Venus, or to colonize the ocean floor or something, you can't sever all the ties there are,” Harry says, and Lucius' lip twitches.

“Then you think we should merely adopt their technology, disregarding the fact that Muggle electric devices won't work in any area with a strong magical field?” Harry opens his mouth to respond, and then realizes that he doesn't really have a solution to that.

“Er-”

“You didn't factor that into your considerations,” Lucius says pointedly, and Harry huffs.

“No,” Harry agrees, and takes an irritable bite of his scrambled eggs. He's not eaten much of it, really, having been drawn into an argument, but he's taking bites now. It's actually really _good_ , and he's not too surprised that Lucius' grandma was a chef. “Do you miss her?”

“Miss whom?” Lucius asks, obviously surprised by the change of subject, and Harry backtracks a bit.

“Your grandmother.”

“Yes, I do, even now,” Lucius answers, and then says, “I felt her loss especially keenly when Draco was born. She died when I was eleven, I had just arrived at Hogwarts. My father wrote me a letter informing me rather curtly, and I was not permitted to attend her funeral.”

“That's cold,” Harry says. “Did you go home for Christmas?”

“That year, and the next,” Lucius agrees with a small nod of his head. “Once I reached my third year, I remained in Hogwarts, looking after a few first years who remained at school. Half-bloods, mostly. And then in my fifth year I was a prefect, so I was rather obliged to do so.”

“Did you enjoy being a prefect?” Harry asks. It's a question he's never really asked Ron or Hermione, or even any of the prefects he knew from the other houses – it seemed fairly obvious that they did, or they wouldn't have accepted the badge.

“Yes, I did,” Lucius says, with a small nod of his head. “Slytherin prefects have to be held to a higher standard than those of the other houses.” Harry frowns at him, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“What do you mean?” Harry watches Lucius as he sets his bowl aside, watching the way he delicately steeples his fingers in his lap, looking momentarily thoughtful. The glassy look doesn't return to his eyes, but he can see Lucius thinking, scanning the middle-distance in front of him for the right words.

“We're stricter on our own than the other houses are, and not as strict on other houses' students as we might like to be. We're held to a higher standard by non-Slytherin staff, and by necessity we must foster strength amongst other Slytherins, so that they can better function in the society they will come to,” Lucius answers in a slow, measured tone, and meeting Harry's eyes, he asks, “You've never considered the sacrifices we make, have you?”

“The sacrifices you guys make don't exactly make up for what you do to people,” Harry points out, and Lucius lets out a short laugh. He doesn't seem troubled by it in the least: instead, he reaches forwards, grasping Harry by the hips and dragging him forwards. The silken fabric of Lucius' pyjamas is cool under his fingers as he straddles the older man's lap. “You know what a really cool sacrifice would be?”

“I'm not letting you fuck me, Potter,” Lucius says smoothly, and Harry feels himself frown. He does his best not to let it become a pout. “I may allow you, however-”

“I'm not sucking your dick, Malfoy.” Lucius _does_ pout. The moue twists his lips attractively, and Harry grins a little against his mouth. “Are you sleeping here tonight?”

“If it's no trouble,” Lucius says, as if he had any plan on asking permission.

“Where's _Cissy_?”

“ _Narcissa_ ,” Lucius says, giving him a frown, “is spending time with her sister.” Harry laughs.

“Yeah, I know,” he says. Lucius' silver brows furrow. “Drom told me they're going to a strip club.”

“Oh,” Lucius says, and he smiles fondly. “How lovely.”

“You are _weird_ ,” Harry says, but before Lucius can argue Harry kisses him on the mouth, sliding his fingers slowly into the older man's hair. The man must use a dozen products in it, and it's silken and fine to the touch and God, it smells nice. Lucius draws back slightly, putting his knuckles on the bottom of Harry's chin.

“Nothing would please me more, Potter, than to fuck you to pieces.” Harry shivers, sitting back against Lucius' knees and hugging his knees against the other man's hips.

“Tell me a story,” Harry demands, and he presses his hands over Lucius' chest, thumbing over the older man's nipples through the shirt and making him hum. “Something sexy.”

“There once was a man,” Lucius murmurs, “Whose initials were S.T.S., and his name was somewhat unconventional in that his first name was Sum, his second Ting, and-” Harry groans against Lucius' neck, and he enjoys the huff of breath against his neck as Lucius laughs at his own stupid dad joke. “When my father joined the Board of Governors at Hogwarts, I went with him. I was only in my early twenties at the time, and this was before Draco was to be born. I knew a few of the young men in the seventh year; it was the Christmas holidays, and there were very few students staying.”

Lucius' voice takes on a low, husky tone as he speaks, and Harry breathes in as Lucius' hands settle between his legs, fingers featherlight over the flesh of Harry's thighs. He draws them back and forth, back and forth, in a slow rhythm, and Harry closes his eyes.

“The Slytherin dormitories only have two beds to each room, so at a signal, I crept down to the common room and slipped into his bedroom, which was empty, but for him. He was already naked for me, settled in the candlelight and pale as a unicorn hair; I moved forwards, knelt on the edge of the bed. He was such a demanding thing, you know: sat there and demanded I suck him.”

“Did you?” Harry asks. His own voice comes out slightly hoarse.

“Of course I did,” Lucius murmurs. “I settled myself between his thighs, spread his knees and kept him pinned to the bed. He had a nice cock: long and a little thin, and it fit quite easily in my mouth.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry mutters. “You've got a big mouth.” Lucius pinches the inside of his thigh, and Harry lets out a hiss of noise as Lucius cups him through his pyjama bottoms, drawing his thumb over the bulge there.

“So did he. You know what he said to me when I wouldn't let him come?”

“Fuck you, you big white peacock?”

“ _If you won't allow me my desires, Lucius, I won't permit you yours.”_ Harry laughs a little, and Lucius murmurs, “I didn't permit him just yet, though. I let my tongue drift just a little lower, let myself slip my mouth between his skinny little thighs and I tongued the flesh there. Merlin, you ought have seen him: usually such a collected rake of a thing, and he _writhed_. He did his best not to, of course, tried to keep himself still: usually, his clothes were covered in buttons, and-”

“Buttons?” Harry repeats, opening his eyes. Unicorn hair pale, demanding, and Lucius' _quote…_ Oh, God. Oh, God, _no_.

“Yes,” Lucius says, and he laughs, looking off fondly. “He always had buttons all over his robes, kept him stiff-”

“You're telling me about how you fucked _Snape_ ,” Harry says, horrified, and he scrambles off of Lucius' lap. “Oh my _God_ , Lucius, you dick, I don't want to hear about that!” Lucius is staring at him, his brows furrowing slightly, and he tilts his head slightly to the side. He seems honestly _confused_.

“Harry-”

“It's _weird_ , Lucius. He- he was best friends with my mum, and my dad bullied him, and he- he died right in front of me, that's not- I don't want to think of him like that.” Lucius stands, leaning and drawing his mouth over the side of Harry's neck.

“My apologies,” he murmurs, slipping his hands into the back of Harry's pyjama trousers, and Harry feels driven to _distraction_ , trying not to think about _Snape_ with anyone, let alone Lucius Malfoy. The Lucius Malfoy that's touching him right now, who's also touched _Snape._ “Let me make you forget.”

“How?” Harry asks, slightly desperately, and Lucius chuckles, sliding very, very slowly to his knees. “Oh,” Harry says. “Won't that hurt you?”

“With respect, darling boy, your sweet little instrument couldn't hurt me if you dipped it in broken glass.” Harry resists the urge to kick Lucius in the chest.

“I meant being on your knees, given that you're an ancient old bag.” Lucius laughs against Harry's thigh, and Harry hides his face in his hands. Lucius' fingers draw in the fabric at Harry's knees, pulling down the bottoms, and then he leans forwards, dragging his tongue over Harry's cock. Harry's half hard already, although thoughts of his potionsmaster had affected him to flag slightly, Lucius' tongue definitely helps. “Let me come down there with you.”

“On the floor?” Lucius asks, arching an eyebrow. His lips hover the barest inch away from the head of Harry's cock. “Why, but this is _my_ domain. Why should I allow such trespass, Potter?”

“I want you to fuck me into the carpet until I can't breathe,” Harry says.

“That's an excellent reason, Potter. Do come down here.” Harry grins, dropping onto the floor with the older man, and Lucius breathes in. “On all fours, perhaps? I do believe if I hold your hair...”

“You can push my face right into the floor,” Harry agrees, and Lucius' grin is positively _savage_.

“You are a delightful slut, Potter. You do realize that?”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry says, and when Lucius grabs him by the hair he _hisses,_ even as Lucius drags him forwards, bites at his neck and presses him down to the ground. “I love this.”

“Oh, I know,” Lucius murmurs, sounding pleased with himself. “It is _more_ than obvious, my dear.” And yeah, Harry thinks, perhaps it is, but he doesn't care. This is too good to care.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a link [right here](https://hpkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org) to the new Harry Potter Kink Meme, an anonymous prompt and fill meme hosted on Dreamwidth. I fill prompts here on the meme, and it's a lot of fun, so if there's anything you feel like prompting to the anonymous world of HP Kink, go right ahead!


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